When I Left Home

by Guy, Buddy

  Leonard let me stay. This happened in 1963 when Muddy was fifty and I was twenty-seven. Muddy not only let me weave my little solos in between his, but he also let me sing. When we recorded, I put my chair real close to his. I never stopped looking in his eyes. And I never stopped smiling. That’s how happy I was. The songs were tunes Muddy had been doing for a while—“My Home Is in the Delta,” “Long Distance,” “Country Boy,” “Feel Like Going Home.” Willie Dixon plucked the upright bass and Clif James beat the drums. Nothing fancy. In a couple of hours we was through.

  “Damn,” Leonard said to me, pleased with everything, “you can sound like an old fart, can’t you?”

  Muddy was happy too. All he wanted was someone who spoke his language and could follow his lead. They called the record Muddy Waters: Folk Singer.

  About a month later the Mud went back to England, this time all prepared to be the folk singer. No electricity, no amp. He remembered how last time they didn’t think he was authentic. Now he was ready to prove ’em wrong.

  A week after he got back I stopped by the house to see him. It was five in the afternoon, but he wasn’t up yet. If there was no White Sox on TV, Muddy liked to sleep the day away. I waited down in the kitchen, talking to Junior Wells, who was staying with him. Seemed like at some point everyone stayed with Muddy. I believe I was the exception. I liked being on my own. Besides, by then our second daughter, Carlise DeEtta, was born. I had a family to tend to.

  Muddy came down around six. His hair was hidden under a black silk do-rag.

  “How was England?” I asked.

  “Shitty,” he said. “They booed me again.”

  “How they be booing you when you gave ’em what they was looking for?” I asked.

  “This time they was looking for the electricity. You see, when I was there last trip with the plugged-in guitar, a lot of the young kids liked it. So they went and got plugged-in guitars themselves. When I come back with the acoustic, they ain’t happy. They don’t want no quiet-ass folk singer. They want loud.”

  “Oh, man,” I said, “That must have hurt.”

  “The money didn’t hurt, but I’ll be goddamned if I can figure out what those English motherfuckers want. Didn’t I tell you they got their heads up their ass?”

  My recording career still was going nowhere fast. I wrote a song called “Stone Crazy” that I thought might do something. Leonard put it out, along with some more I wrote—“I Found a True Love” “No Lie,” “Watch Yourself.” Someone said “Stone Crazy” popped on the Billboard chart for a minute, but I didn’t see no check.

  There was nothing wrong with any of these songs except for Chess telling me, “Keep your style under control.” That meant, “Don’t do your wild thing.” My wild thing was when I let the guitar rip, when I didn’t care if it was a little out of tune, didn’t care if the feedback fucked up the sound. Fact is that I liked that fucked-up sound—it said what I needed to say.

  No one loved the older cats more than I did. They were my heroes—Muddy and B. B. and Lightnin’ hung the moon. And I could play in their style. I could play on the moon. But I could also go to Mars. Leonard Chess didn’t want me up in Mars. Strangely, though, his son Marshall, who had fresher ears, was a space traveler like me. He kept telling his daddy to let me rock it my own way. Once they even had a big fight in the studio.

  “You don’t get what Buddy can really do,” Marshall said to Leonard. “You’ve never seen him live in the club.”

  “I don’t have to,” Leonard shouted at his son. “I’ve seen what he can do in the studio. And what he does is fine.”

  “Then why do you keep in a straitjacket?”

  “It’s no straitjacket. It’s a decision I make based on what radio wants to hear.”

  “You can’t let radio lead you. You got to lead radio.”

  “I’ve done pretty good so far,” said father to son. “Didn’t I just get you a new car?”

  “That’s not the point, Dad. Music is changing, and Buddy’s one of the artists pushing it in new directions.”

  “For now, let’s stick to the directions leading to the bank.”

  Willie Dixon wrote a song with me in mind called “The Same Thing.” He said it was a hit, the breakthrough I needed. He played it for me, and I liked it real well. It talked about men seeing women wearing their skirts tight being the same thing that makes a tomcat fight all night. It was a funky thing, and I was ready to run in and record it.

  “No, sir,” said Willie. “We gonna work this one right. We gonna rehearse it before we go in the studio. I ain’t taking no chances.”

  That’s what we did. For several months I was over at Willie’s, running down this one song. We got it to the point where we was all convinced it was perfect.

  I arrived early for the session. This was as good a chance as any for a surefire smash. What “Hideway” had done for Freddie King, “The Same Thing” could do for me.

  Before we got started Leonard Chess came out the recording booth and asked me and Willie to run the song down. Leonard hadn’t heard it before. I sang and played it, Leonard all the while nodding with the groove. He had a smile across face. That had to be a good sign.

  It wasn’t.

  Leonard said, “Man, that’s a goddamn hit song if I’ve ever heard one. Call Muddy.”

  “What do you want with Muddy?” asked Willie.

  “I want Muddy to do it,” said Leonard. “This tune’s got Muddy written all over it. We’ll find another song for Buddy.”

  I started to say something, started to protest how I’d been perfecting the song for months. But it wasn’t my place to say anything—Willie had to speak up. But Willie didn’t. Willie worked for Leonard, and Willie saw no reason to upset the boss.

  Far as I was concerned, going against Muddy would be worse than going against my own mama—I loved the man too much. If they wanted to give him the song, he deserved it.

  An hour later, when he came to the studio, I even helped Muddy learn it. I stayed to play back-up guitar. Sure, my heart was hurting, but my heart was also happy that Muddy was getting good material. He did it beautifully, and I’d have to count it among his best records.

  All this happened in 1964, and it was surely on my mind when I went back in the studio to sing “My Time After a While.” The song said, “It’s your turn, baby, but it’s gonna be mine after a while.” That’s how I felt.

  Sonny Boy and Little Walter was in the studio that night along with those boys from London they was calling the Rolling Stones, named after one of Muddy’s lines. Muddy said they knew more about him than he knew about himself. They had a couple hits that I hadn’t heard yet. They were so crazy about Chess Records that they’d come all the way from England to record at 2120. On this night they just came to listen.

  First thing they heard was Sonny and Walter arguing.

  “I had me this bitch down in Kentucky that was the best pussy of my life,” said Walter.

  “Where in Kentucky?” asked Sonny Boy.

  “Louisville,” said Walter.

  “Her name Brenda?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had her too.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Walter. “There be lots of Brendas.”

  “Is she a heavy-set woman who keeps this black poodle dog around her, even when you be fucking?”

  “Matter of fact, she did have her a poodle dog,” said Walter.

  “Well, sir, let me tell about big Brenda. First thing she got from me was one finger. That didn’t make her happy, so I gave her two. When two wouldn’t do, you know what I had to give?”

  Walter didn’t want to ask, but I did.

  “What?”

  “I give her this”—and then Sonny Boy stuck out his tongue, popped his fingers, and walked out the studio, leaving me and the Rolling Stones rolling on the floor.

  The Stones hung around while I recorded “My Time After a While” and afterward gave me some kind words.

  Them Stones have always been
good to me. Later in my career they came in at just the right time. They paid me big respect, and I give back the same respect. Wasn’t for them and other guys like Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck, blues wouldn’t have the worldwide recognition it has today. When everyone was singing the praises of the Stones—and the Beatles too—those cats were honest enough to say that it came from Muddy and B. B. and John Lee.

  When the Stones came to Chess in ’64, they started telling everyone—and even wrote it up in books—that they saw Muddy Waters standing on a ladder where he was whitewashing the walls. They said the Mud had whitewash all over his face. For years Keith Richards repeated this story. His point was that Leonard Chess was using poor Muddy as a handyman.

  Leonard and Muddy are long gone, but I was there—and so was Marshall Chess—and we both know this ain’t true. If anyone had been used as a handyman, it would have been me. At Chess I was low man in the pecking order, but no one ever asked me to paint walls or mop floors. And if they didn’t ask me, they sure as hell wouldn’t ask the Mud. Muddy was a proud man. He knew he’d put Chess on the map. He realized his importance. No doubt Leonard cooked the books so that Muddy never got his fair share, but Muddy got something. He had a house. And when he went into that studio, he didn’t wear no painter’s overalls—he was clean as the board of health. Suit all pressed. Shoes spit-shined polished. Hair processed high and slick. Muddy Waters knew that in Chicago, Illinois, he was boss of the blues. If he wanted to, he could probably have gotten Leonard Chess over to his house to whitewash his walls. Leonard worked to keep Muddy happy.

  As I approached thirty I was happy, but hardly rich. Many a week I’d come up short. That’s because the clubs and the record company wasn’t paying shit. My father-in-law was yelling for me to get a regular job, and at some point I did. I started driving a tow truck. I wanted to get where I could buy a two-flat house for my family. That couldn’t happen if I didn’t supplement my low-paying guitar gigs. I had to change my routine: I played my blues till four in the morning and then went to the garage, where I curled up in a corner and slept till 8 a.m. before working till 6 p.m. I stayed on that schedule for years. It was rough, but it did teach me every street and back alley in Chicago.

  In the truck and in my house I listened to the radio. I heard the Beatles and the Stones. In their songs I heard echoes of our music. I thought that was good. I felt like we was being appreciated. I also loved Ray Charles singing “Hit the Road, Jack,” a song written by the bluesman Percy Mayfield, a great artist himself. When Ray sang country and hit with “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” I had to smile. Things were expanding. I liked what was happening at Motown. I liked Stevie Wonder blowing his harmonica on “Fingertips.” Little Eva’s “Locomotion” got me going. So did James Brown’s “Night Train.” In Chicago a label called Veejay had Jerry Butler doing “He Will Break Your Heart” and Gene Chandler’s “Duke of Earl.” The Impressions were from Chicago. I loved their “Gypsy Woman” and “It’s All Right.” When Curtis Mayfield came to see me in Gary, he said how much the loved the blues. We was all connected.

  But we was also disconnected. Even the greatest bluesmen—take Muddy or Lightnin’, B. B. or John Lee—stand alone. They got their own story to tell, a story no one can tell but them. For a very long time only black people wanted to hear that story. That was fine. There was enough black fans that you could make a dollar or two playing your blues. But here in the sixties black folk was changing their taste. Motown was bringing them a smoother sound. Black folk like smooth. James Brown was bringing it with more dance flavor. Black folk like to dance. Curtis Mayfield had a little message in his music. Black folk like messages. All this meant that, more and more, blacks was listening to blues less and less. And as the sixties moved on, blacks with money started turning their back on the blues altogether.

  B. B. tells a story about playing a show with the early Motown acts. The artists gave him respect, but when he was introduced to the all-black crowd, he heard big boos. That got B. B. to crying. He said that his own people looked on him like he was a farmer wearing overalls and smoking a corncob pipe. Meanwhile, he was dressed slick. His band was dressed slick. They was sharp as they could be. But the young blacks saw B. B. as old hat. They saw him as a grandfather playing their grandfather’s music. At the time B. B. was thirty-six.

  The sixties were confusing. The world was shifting in ways that didn’t make a lot to sense to a country boy from Lettsworth, Louisiana. I wanted to keep playing, and I wanted to keep exciting people with what I played. I felt like I was keeping up with the music, and at times I knew I was even ahead of the music.

  That made me feel good inside. But it didn’t stop me from doing the one thing I could count on—driving that goddamn tow truck all over the city of Chicago.

  Brother, Brother

  Junior Wells gets his own chapter in my book. He’s one of the craziest characters to come running through my life. I’m grateful to God that we hooked up like we did—not that it was all smooth sailing. Junior came with a boatload of baggage, but with Junior by my side, I do believe I raised the stakes. Together we made music I could never have made alone. He inspired me.

  I met him at the 708 in the late fifties. He was just a little over a year older than me, but he had a lifetime more experience. Naturally, I knew him as the cat that took Little Walter’s place in Muddy’s band. That was the only credential he needed. With all them harp men hustling in Chicago and then to be chosen by the Mud—well, he had to be great.

  He was great, and he’d be the first tell you.

  “I studied on the greats when I a little bitty boy in West Memphis,” he told me many a time. “First one I heard was the original Sonny Boy Williamson. Never met him, but they’d play him on the radio. When I moved to Chicago in ’46, I was eleven. I had me my harp and was ready to go. Then I learned that the original Sonny Boy was killed right here at the Plantation Club. That was like a warning, but hell, I was gonna be a bluesman, danger or no danger. I went right up to Sonny Boy the second—Rice Miller—in a barroom and asked him to show me some tricks on the harmonica. ‘Motherfucker,’ he said, ‘you too dumb and stupid.’ He’bout cut off my head. He told me to get the fuck outta his face. I was the determined kind, so I asked him again. That’s when he pulled his blade and told me to get. I got in a hurry.

  “But Muddy and Tampa Red were nicer. When I was a teenager, they let me sit in with them at the Ebony Club. Then I had me some trouble. At school a big bully hit me for no reason. So I got me a baseball bat and retaliated upside his head. They was gonna throw me outta school and put me in jail. But at juvenile court Tampa Red and Muddy showed up to testify on my behalf. Said I had talent and a future. Judge made Muddy sign something that said he’d care for me. He did. I walked out a free man. I thanked Muddy and then went off to catch the bus. Muddy said, ‘Where you going, Junior? Get in the car with me.’ I said, ‘I got places to go.’ ‘The hell you do. I’m in charge of your black ass.’ Muddy was blocking my way to the bus, so I gave him a shove. Muddy didn’t say nothing. He just pulled out his .25 automatic and pointed it at my head. ‘I got no problem with shooting you—no problem at all.’ I listened to him. That’s when I knew I had a daddy.”

  Little Walter and Muddy had a falling out over “Juke,” Walter’s big hit. Walter claimed he never got his share of proper attention and money. Meanwhile, Junior claimed that Walter had stolen the tune from the group he had formed, the Four Aces, with Louis and David Myers and Fred Below. Junior said “Juke” was their theme song.

  With Walter gone, Junior became Muddy’s new man. Even moved into the Mud’s house. That caused some problems. Muddy and his wife Geneva was charging Junior a little rent, but when Junior found out some other musician was staying there free of charge, he went crazy and pulled a knife on Muddy. Muddy didn’t blink. He up and smacked Junior’s face before Junior had a chance to do anything. Then he grabbed his neck and declared, “I’ll fuck up your mouth so bad you’ll never play that harp again.”
That’s when Junior backed off. Over the years Junior and Muddy had a father-son love-hate thing.

  Muddy told me stories about how he liked to tease Junior. Once they was driving from a gig. Junior and the Mud was in the backseat. Wearing his do-rag, Junior was fast asleep with his mouth wide open. Muddy got a bold idea. He had the driver stop at a grocery store where they bought a small tin of oysters. They opened the can and poured some of the oyster juice into the side of Junior’s mouth. Junior kept snoring. The Mud took some of that same juice and poured it over his own dick. Then they shook Junior awake. Junior felt the juice in his mouth and saw the juice on Muddy’s prick. Muddy said, “Okay, I’m through. You can go back to sleep.” Junior started choking—he was sure Muddy had put his dick in his mouth. Junior went for his knife, but the other cats held him back. When Muddy told the story, he was on the floor laughing.

  Another time they was all in a motel. Junior had a gal that fancied Muddy, and Muddy also had a yen for her. So Otis Spann went to Junior’s room and said he needed to see Junior in the parking lot.

  “Let’s talk here,” said Junior.

  “Parking lot’s better,” said Otis. “It’s a pretty day and we need some fresh air.”

  They went to the parking lot, where Otis started talking some bullshit. Junior got suspicious, so he headed back to his room. Gal was gone. He started looking around. That’s when he heard noises from Muddy’s room. Through the window he could see the boss banging his girlfriend. By then Otis and the others had caught up with Junior and kept him from breaking into the room. But they did let him watch.

  “The fucked-up thing,” said Junior when he told me his version of the story, “was that the bitch was enjoying it even more than Muddy.”

  Blue Mondays at Theresa’s was where the cats came to jam. That’s where me and Junior first started in together. Wasn’t no formal band. We didn’t have no business arrangement or musical arrangements. As a guitar man and harp player, we was just good grits and gravy. After a while you’d hear people say, “Oh, y’all are the new Muddy and Walter.”