Testimony

by Robbie Robertson

  Between sets Jack Fisher told us that the ex-judge in Mississauga had agreed to represent us. Bill Avis drove us out there so we could meet him and tell our side of the story. He looked to be ninety years old and his hands shook as he made notes. He didn’t seem to be a stickler for detail, and I couldn’t tell if it was age or disinterest. Needless to say, we were worried sick about the choice of attorney, and that night we expressed our deep concerns to Jack Fisher. He nodded but told us the old fellow was our best bet in Mississauga. “He was the main judge there for many years, and the new judges all respect him.”

  “Sir,” Levon said, “we’re so thankful for your help and advice. But our ass is on the line. Are you sure about this?”

  “No,” Jack replied. “But he’s going to get the trial postponed for a few months, and it will give us time to look at it closer. In the meantime you guys better be careful. They’re going to be watching you.”

  Our next booking was at the Grange, a new club in Hamilton, Ontario, run by a Chinese family. We drew good crowds, ate lots of Mandarin food, and started feeling like we were getting back on our feet. Between sets I hung out downstairs in a little dressing room and worked on an idea for a song called “Leave Me Alone.” While writing a few lines and pacing back and forth, I noticed a square door in one of the walls, about waist high. The door blended into the woodwork and was almost invisible but for a latch with a padlock that hung loose. The door had an Alice in Wonderland vibe to it, and I decided to take a peek inside. I removed the padlock, opened the door, and after a second’s look slammed it shut immediately. I went and got the other guys.

  “You wanna see something?”

  They all followed me to the dressing room and gathered around as I opened the little door. Inside in the darkness, about fifty glowing eyes stared back at us. Cats, lots and lots of cats.

  “Maybe they have a problem with mice, maybe rats?” Richard offered. “Or…”

  We all had the same horrible thought, and never ate Chinese food there ever again.

  One of the stipulations of our bail was that we had to stay in Canada, but our southern agent, Dayton Stratton, had already booked some April gigs in Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. Thankfully, in a few weeks our lawyer was able to secure permission for us to go back and forth to the U.S. for work purposes. The pay for these gigs wasn’t really enough to sustain our expenses going south again, but Levon was convinced more opportunities would arise once we got there.

  We were relieved to be free to go back to the States, and Levon and I arranged to take one of the Monarchs and visit Mike Bloomfield in Chicago on our way down to Texas. So we headed to the mecca of big-city blues. I offered to drive, but naturally Levon jumped behind the wheel. “Son, you drive like an old lady. We gotta cross the border before next winter sets in.”

  “Hell, I ain’t that bad,” I said as we blew past the Toronto city limits, picking up speed. “Let’s not get arrested all over again.”

  He pulled a Marlboro out of his pocket with a cocktail roach stuck in the end and handed it to me. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  We crossed the border at Windsor-Detroit and met up with a couple of friends, who took us to a club where a hot blues band was playing. It was an all-black joint, packed to the rafters. Levon pointed out a couple of cute girls at the front of the stage. He exchanged smiles with them. Our friends said that Bobo’s Blues Band was up for us sitting in, if we wanted.

  The crowd cheered when Bobo and his men took the stage. Bobo looked like a Bobo, big, dark, and jolly, with a mile-wide smile. He strapped on his guitar, and from the enthusiasm of the crowd you could tell he had a strong following in the Motor City. After the band had rocked three or four tunes, he looked over to see if we wanted to jam with them, but Levon suddenly got cold feet. He didn’t think the drummer looked keen on someone taking over his kit.

  They had an extra guitar amp on the stage, so all I had to do was plug in. The musicians didn’t quite seem to know what to make of this white guy sitting in with them, but they kicked into “Kansas City” with the grooviest shuffle of the night. Bobo took the first solo, cranking out a rhythmic riff that I completely got behind. My turn was next, and I signaled the band to break, then threw in some low-string growls. As they came back in I ripped into high gear, screaming to the stratosphere. It wasn’t a competition, but I had a natural instinct to pull out the stops. Bobo looked over at me like Who is this guy, and what’s this shit?

  The crowd didn’t like seeing Bobo get shot down, especially by some white out-of-towner. Even the cute girls standing in front were waving me off, as if to say Don’t be messin’ with our Bobo! Catching on, I immediately backed off and played a support rhythm, letting Bobo take all the solos for the rest of the song. When the tune ended, I bowed to him and applauded his effort. He flashed that big Bobo smile. I threw my guitar in the case, and Levon and I slipped out the stage door and into the night. “Man, it got raw in there for a minute,” said Levon, laughing as we drove through the dark city.

  We “motorvated” into the Midwest the next morning, through Battle Creek and Kalamazoo—places of legend, places where you sent cereal box tops for mail-order goodies. Passing a sign that said CHICAGO, 47 MILES, Levon flicked the dial over to a local “race” radio station that played mostly R&B with a touch of blues. The whole atmosphere changed. Chicago was a big, badass American city, and you could feel it in the air. Approaching downtown, we pulled into a gas station to call Mike Bloomfield.

  Right off the bat, you got the idea Bloomfield had this town wired. He took us to a funky little place to grab a bite, and as we ate told us about the circuit he was playing with Paul Butterfield, who shared his devotion to the blues. We had heard wild stories about Paul and his friend Nick “the Greek” Gravenites, another white Chicago blues singer. The circles they ran in and the places they frequented, well—you’d have to be some tough, crazy sons of bitches to seek out danger like that.

  When we hit the street, Mike had a plan. “Let’s go by Butterfield’s place. He’s got some rare blues records, killer stuff—you’ll love it, and we’ll smoke some weed.”

  We arrived at Butterfield’s apartment, and Paul came out from a back room and greeted Mike in a quiet, casual way. He had a pale, street-hardened face with remnants of freckles, and his hair was pushed back like a bohemian Bela Lugosi. Mike introduced us with little backstory or fanfare. Paul looked as if it would have been difficult for him to care any less who we were, but I liked him anyway. He had a dry sense of humor and seemed like the kind of guy who got straight to the point. When I looked over at Levon, though, I could see he had reservations. He was eyeing the sweat stains on Butterfield’s shirt. One thing that turned him off about some of our newfound acquaintances like Bloomfield was the fact that they weren’t overly concerned with personal hygiene. The funky beatnik body odor didn’t sit well with Levon. He was a true believer that cleanliness was damn close to godliness, and both he and the Hawk were sticklers about being showered and fresh no matter how hard we might sweat while playing. They inspired all the Hawks to embrace the full routine—“shower, shit, shave, and shampoo”—often before and after a gig.

  I figured I’d get us talking music. “You got any blues gems we ain’t heard yet?” Paul’s face lit up at the challenge. Right away he reached for a 45, looked at one side, and flipped it over with a smile. It was a B-side by his true-life blues-harp hero, the great Little Walter. Paul was a dedicated disciple of Walter’s and had studied his sound and licks closer than probably any other human being. He dropped the needle and turned up the volume on “Boom, Boom, Out Goes the Lights.” The record slayed us.

  As we came out of its spell, Bloomfield took the situation in hand. “Hey, Butter, you got any smoke? We’d love to enjoy a little reefer.” Paul looked at us warily, trying to decide if he wanted us smoking up his weed. “Come on, man, let’s have a smoke,” Mike urged. Paul went in the back—we could see him opening a drawer—and returned a moment later with some pap
ers and a couple of plastic bags. He gave us a pack of rolling papers and a bag of grass, and he kept the other bag and rolled a joint from it for himself.

  “Thanks, Paul, we really appreciate it,” I said. “Is there a difference between the two bags?”

  Paul kept on rolling, didn’t look up. “This grass here is really good, and that bag there is dog shit.”

  I laughed incredulously. “So you’re going to smoke the good stuff while we get the shit. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He looked up and said, “That’s right, I’m not giving you the good stuff. Smoke that or don’t, I don’t really give a fuck.”

  We huffed and puffed on that lemonade trying to get a buzz while Paul, red-eyed and shuffling through his records again, picked out a Little Junior Parker cut and said, “Oh, I got a Big Walter track you probably never heard too.”

  When we left, I asked Bloomfield, “Is that behavior normal around here? Seems kind of cold and selfish, like a ‘screw you.’ ”

  “Yeah, what a piss-poor attitude,” Levon grumbled.

  “That’s just the way he is. Like he said, he don’t give a fuck. Don’t worry about it. We’re going to a club on the South Side called Pepper’s. Muddy’s playing…”

  —

  “Welcome to blues heaven,” I said to Levon as we sat ourselves at a table close enough to hear Muddy Waters’s fingers moving on the strings.

  He smiled. “Don’t get no better.”

  Muddy was belting it out, hard and unforced at the same time. “Forty days and forty nights, since my baby left this town.” There was something so true, so honest about his performance. He didn’t move around much or give any sense of trying to put on a show. He just stood there and sang with his incredible voice. It knocked the wind out of you. One fist would go in the air, and you would feel a touch of gospel, just for a moment. It was hard for me to watch him and breathe at the same time.

  Like Howlin’ Wolf back in West Memphis, Muddy’s band didn’t play loud; they played so they could hear one another, balanced. The power of the sound on the record didn’t prepare you for what you heard in person. Bloomfield waved to Muddy as the drummer counted off “I Just Want to Make Love to You,” a gem written by my songwriting hero, Willie Dixon. Muddy’s voice glided through the music like a crawling king snake. Pure magic. You don’t learn to sing like that: you’re either born with it or you ain’t.

  And Muddy was just the first half of a great night of blues that Mike had planned for us. When Muddy’s band finished up, Mike steered us over to Curly’s to catch the late set from Otis Rush. We got there just in time, and boy, was Otis on fire. He and Buddy Guy and a few others had pioneered what was being called the “West Side sound,” a style of blues considered more modern, a little grittier and more forceful, than the sound of legendary South Side bluesmen like Muddy and Little Walter. A certain drive and aggression sliced through the air at Otis’s show. He played a couple of guitar solos that made Bloomfield’s and my hair stand on end.

  We made plans to meet up with Mike for dinner the next day, then catch the Butterfield Blues Band, who were playing a club called Big John’s over near the University of Illinois. Levon and I took the day to catch our breath and cruise around Chicago a bit. We wanted to see as much of the city as possible, to feel it in our bones, but time was tight—we had to head for Texas that night after the show to meet up with the rest of the Hawks.

  As the afternoon rolled on, we wanted to smoke a joint. So we went back to Butterfield’s apartment with a sob story, hoping he’d give us a taste, even of the bad stuff. We knocked and knocked at his door. No answer. After we’d knocked for a while, Paul’s landlady appeared to see what was going on. She seemed pleasant enough, so I told her that our friend Paul wasn’t home and we had left a wallet at his place, but now we had to head out for Texas. Could she help?

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have a key, it’s no trouble at all.”

  When we stepped inside the apartment, I kept the landlady talking while Levon slipped into the bedroom, found the stash, and took the good stuff. He pulled his wallet out from his pocket and came to the front door.

  “Found it, all set, thank you.”

  “Well, you boys have a safe drive to Texas.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, much appreciated.” We drove two blocks, pulled over, rolled a sweet one, and got ripped.

  That night we went with Mike to the venue where the Butterfield Blues Band was performing. According to Mike, Big John’s served the best burgers in town, and he was right once again. Then the house lights went down, and the stage lights came up. With Paul on harmonica and vocals and Mike on guitar, the whole band was tight and tough-sounding. They played with such youthful vigor and excitement: louder, faster, right in your face. This was yet another evolution of the blues.

  Toward the end of the show, Paul pulled me up to sit in, and we blasted through a couple of songs, pushing higher and harder. When they finished for the night, Mike looked kind of pale and said he was sorry but had to get going. We said good-bye and thanked him for a wondrous time. Then he disappeared quickly. We told Butterfield we were about to hit the road, and he followed us into our car. He seemed distracted and bothered about something. Suddenly, he smacked the back of the seat with his hand.

  “Goddamnit!” he erupted. “Somebody stole my grass, my good grass! And I think it was Bloomfield. That motherfucker, I’m gonna break his fuckin’ neck.”

  “Whoa. You guys just played, and it seemed like everything was cool.”

  “I’m just now putting the pieces together. And he’s the only one who knows where my stash was. Bastard. I can’t believe it.”

  “Naw,” Levon said. “Mike is such a good guy, he wouldn’t do that.”

  “Then why did he run off so quickly tonight?” Paul snarled. “Something don’t smell right to me.”

  “Paul, I’m sorry but we’ve gotta ask you a special favor,” I said, with all the sincerity I could muster. “Levon and I have to drive to Texas tonight. Could you spare us a little grass? We’ll repay you next time for sure. I’d really appreciate it.”

  Paul looked almost hurt by the request. “Hey, man, I just got robbed. I don’t have that much left. What are you asking me for?”

  “Just a couple of joints for the trip, or one, whatever you can spare,” Levon said. Butter rolled his head back. “You guys, shit. Lemme check my bag and see. Where’s the papers? I’ll roll you guys one for the road….I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “We’ll pay you back twice as much next time,” I said.

  Once we’d said good-bye and Levon and I were speeding out of Chicago, I pulled Butter’s joint from my pocket.

  “Maybe he’ll learn a lesson about stinginess and treat people right in the future,” said Levon.

  “I believe he’s already started learning.”

  Levon laughed. “Now light that sucker.”

  I felt kind of bad for ripping off Butter. We were musicians, not thieves, but we were picking up bad behavior from the lifestyles of the crooked and the bent. Street hustlers and road dogs surrounded us in the clubs and on the road, and don’t let anybody tell you “it don’t rub off.” The game had become normal to us, but it wasn’t who we were. Bad habits, we were collecting them like coins, and we knew how that worked: the more you get, the more you want. I wrestled with these thoughts late at night when my mind was too tired to fight them off.

  —

  As we drove past Memphis, talking about all the great music we loved, I put a question to Levon about our own studio ambitions and the kind of songs we hoped to record. Were we shunning popular music to our detriment because of our particular taste in music? We liked finding obscure records by unknown artists—southern R&B, Chicago blues, rare mountain music. When we were asked by audience members in clubs to cover some radio hits, we almost resented it and tried to fulfill their needs with something they’d never heard of. But it made me wonder if we were building a wall between the a
udience and ourselves. Were we shooting ourselves in the foot by always looking for the unobvious?

  “I don’t know what other people like,” Levon said quietly. “I know what I like, and maybe that will go a long way, and maybe it won’t.”

  I realized in this moment that my partner, for all his extraordinary musical skills, didn’t have a strong relationship with what was trendy or popular, and for that matter none of the other guys did either. Whatever direction we were going with our music, we would have to make it on our own terms.

  —

  We played a stretch of dates in Texas around the Dallas–Fort Worth area, typically hard-edged kind of places. I called up my old girl Virgie, and she said she’d never been to the South and wanted to come visit. We were still terribly low on cash and had some fairly uninspiring venues coming up.

  “This might not be the most ideal time to come down here,” I told her. “We have some real unglamorous joints scheduled.”

  “If you were on the moon, it wouldn’t matter,” she insisted.

  So Virgie came down, and of course I was thrilled to see her. With her modern, metropolitan wardrobe and style, she looked stunning and wildly out of place. Her mere presence made these honky-tonks easier on the eyes. One night after a show we all went across town to a blues club where Little Junior Parker and his band were playing. I loved the slinky smoothness of Junior Parker’s blues style and harp playing. He had a full band behind him with a horn section and everything, which signified a level of prestige and class. The staff knew we were in a band playing across town and set us up at a table right down in front of the stage. We ordered drinks and felt right at home, even if we were the only nonblacks in the packed audience.

  Junior Parker’s band took the stage and kicked into a wicked groove. His guitar player must have weighed 350 pounds, and he put his full weight into his thick, funky sound. Then Little Junior came on and glided right into “Driving Wheel,” a raw blues shuffle. I stood and applauded, it felt so damn good. Junior looked over at our table and bowed his head lightly. He was dressed to the nines, with a sharp cream-colored suit, orange and brown tie, two-tone shoes, and big diamond rings on both hands. Every song they played hit the mark. Junior owned the night.