When I Left Home

by Guy, Buddy

  “S-s-s-s-s-starts out with w-w-w-w-with me and Jimmy Reed playing a show in Detroit. After the g-g-g-g-g-gig we both got sloppy d-d-d-d-d-drunk and picked up two w-w-w-w-w-women who w-w-w-w-wanted us real bad. The four of us g-g-g-go to a motel and g-g-g-g-get us two r-r-r-r-rooms. Me and my g-g-g-g-gal got the upstairs room, J-j-j-j-j-j-jimmy and his bitch got the one downstairs. I had a hundred d-d-d-d-d-d-dollars in my p-pp-p-p-pocket that I wasn’t about to l-l-l-l-l-l-lose. Now I’m gonna f-f-f-f-f-fuck this woman until she ain’t ever gonna wanna s-s-ss-s-see me no more, but I’m also g-g-g-g-gonna keep my money. So when she ain’t l-l-l-l-l-l-l-looking, I put my money between the b-b-b-b-b-box spring and the m-m-m-m-m-m-mattress. Well, we get to f-f-f-f-f-fucking real g-g-g-g-g-good and then naturally afterward I f-f-f-f-f-fall to sleep. When I w-w-w-w-w-wake up, the box spring is on t-t-t-t-t-t-top of me and the b-b-b-b-b-bitch is gone. Ain’t b-b-b-b-b-bad enough that she r-r-r-r-run off with my money, but also she done took all my c-c-c-c-c-clothes. All she l-l-l-l-l-leaves me with is my b-b-b-b-b-boxer shorts. So I go r-r-r-rr-running into the hallway in nothing but my b-b-b-b-b-b-boxers, screaming after her. I look at the b-b-b-b-b-b-bottom of the stairs, and there’s Jimmy R-r-r-r-r-reed. He in his b-b-b-b-b-boxer shorts too, looking for his b-b-b-b-bitch, who also done run off. I shout d-d-d-d-d-down at him, ‘What h-h-h-h-h-happened to you, m-m-m-m-motherfucker?’ He l-l-l-l-l-l-looks up at me and y-y-y-y-y-yells, ‘Same thing that happened t-t-t-t-t-to you, Johnny. We both got f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fucked.”

  Something else happened that same year—1965—that folks still talking about today. I went in the studio for the first time with Junior Wells to record not just a single but a whole album that became known as Hoodoo Man Blues.

  Junior called and said, “You know this cat Bob Koester?”

  “No,” I said.

  “He’s been coming ’round the clubs. He got his own label, Delmark. You heard of it?”

  I hadn’t.

  “He says he wanna record me the way I need to be recorded.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He says I don’t need no Willie Dixon or no one like that. He wants me to pick whoever I want to play with. He wants me to choose whatever tunes I want. He says the songs don’t gotta end after three minutes like a record usually do.”

  “Will he give you any money?”

  “A little.”

  “Sounds okay, Junior.”

  “Will you play on it?”

  “Will he give me any money?”

  “A little.”

  “Who else you getting?”

  “Jack Myers.”

  “He’s a good bass man.”

  “And Bill Warren on drums.”

  “No piano?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “How come?”

  “Less cats, more money. You in?”

  “I’m in. You already picked out the songs?”

  “I’ll do it when I get there,” said Junior. “Koester wants me to do ‘Hoodoo Man Blues.’ Says it’s the best thing I ever done. But I ain’t doing it, so don’t even ask me.”

  “Do as you like. It’s your session.”

  “Damn right.”

  When I showed up, Bob Koester took me aside and said, “We should try to get Junior to do ‘Hoodoo Man Blues.’ It’ll help sell the album.”

  “Junior gonna do what Junior gonna do,” I said.

  “I know that,” Bob said, “but if there’s an opening and you start into the song, Junior might get the spirit and sing along. I’ll have the tape rolling just in case.”

  First off, Junior wanted to do “Snatch It Back and Hold It,” a song he wrote in the James Brown bag. His lyrics even talk about how “I ain’t got no brand new bag.” This was Junior trying to compete with James.

  When we did “Hound Dog,” I was thinking of Big Mama Thornton—except that Junior did it his own way until I forgot the original. We did Sonny Boy’s “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl” and a Junior song, “In the Wee Wee Hours.” At some point we were pretty loose and Junior was pretty happy, so I started saying how it’s been so long since I heard his “Hoodoo Blues Man.” I even forgot how it went. That got Junior to start singing it.

  “Oh no, Buddy,” he said, “I know what y’all are trying to get me to do.”

  “Well, if it feel good, Junior,” I said, “go on and do it.”

  The spirit came in the room, and we ran it down. Before we started, though, my amp busted, and I had to plug in through the Leslie speaker of a Hammond B3 organ. The sound came out strange, but I’ve always liked strange. It’s a guitar-marries-the-organ sound. Junior heard the sound and smiled. “Hey man,” he said, “why not?”

  Koester didn’t raise no objections. Fact is that Koester didn’t say much of anything. He let me and Junior run the show. Never told us how to play or when to cut off a song. Was my first experience of doing a full-length album in one shot.

  When it was time to release it, Koester said there were some problems between me and Chess. Said I wasn’t allowed to play on another label without their permission.

  “Fuck it,” I said. “Just put some other name on it.”

  I knew the little up-front money was the only money I’d ever see.

  So the album said, “Junior Wells with the Friendly Chap.”

  Some forty-seven years later my name is on the cover and the thing is still selling. They call it one of the classic blues records of all time. I can’t vouch for that, but it did cement something between me and Junior. Made us realize that as a musical unit, we was tight. Left to our devices, we could burn.

  Even though other labels would put me and Junior in the studio again, and even though we did good stuff, nothing was as good as Hoodoo Man Blues. They say you gotta capture lightning in a bottle, but with music that might happen only once in a lifetime.

  As the sixties marched on, my own life ground to a halt. I was turning thirty, still young, still getting beautiful compliments from the folks in the clubs and a few rock and rollers in England, but I still wasn’t able to support my family on music alone.

  I was still driving the tow truck, fixing flat tires and changing batteries, working the streets of Chicago every day until I had the map of that sprawling city—south, west, north, and east—planted deep inside my brain. Part of me wanted a change, something to let me be a full-time musician. But another part of me—the cautious part—said that a steady job was better than no job at all.

  If something was going to change all that, I sure as hell didn’t see it coming.

  The Creeper

  “Someone here to see you, Buddy,” said my boss. I was working in the service department of Litsinger, second biggest Ford dealer in Chicago.

  “Tell him I’m on the creeper under this here city truck. Tell him to wait.”

  “He says it’s important.”

  “Well, if he wants to talk to me while I’m on my back, draining the oil out of this truck, fine.”

  I kept draining when I saw a pair of feet moving toward me.

  “How come you’re using a creeper?” asked the stranger. “Can’t you put the truck on a lift? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

  “Sure would,” I said, “except this truck’s too big for a lift.”

  “I see.”

  “You come ’round here to discuss trucks?” I asked.

  “No, I came here to discuss music. My name’s Dick Waterman, and I manage Junior Wells. I think I can manage you as well. I think I can get you work. I know I can get you work with Junior.”

  “I’ve heard Junior mention you, Dick Waterman, but I ain’t interested.”

  “Why not?”

  “First off, I’ve been getting my own club work at night, and I don’t need to pay an agent. An agent means less money for me. Second, Junior’s always firing his band and stranding them out there on the road. I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

  “But wouldn’t you rather make your money playing music than working at this garage?�
� asked Waterman.

  “I work at this garage ’cause it’s honest work. I work’cause I’m not gonna beg or steal to feed my family. I don’t mind working here during the day. I play my music at night.”

  “You got to be tired at night.”

  “Mister,” I said, “I been working since I was a little boy. When you out there in the field picking cotton under that blistering Louisiana sun, garage work don’t seem so bad. Then at night the music lifts me up.”

  “How much are you making here?” asked Waterman.

  “Two dollars an hour.”

  “That’s low pay and dangerous work. You could have an accident and lose a finger.”

  “But if I’m out there starving to death, I could lose my life.”

  “I can guarantee you more than two dollars an hour. Matter of fact, I’ll write a postdated check that will cover a whole year of work at twice that amount.”

  “What am I going to do if at the end of the year I go to cash your postdated check and it bounces like a rubber ball?”

  Waterman had to laugh.

  “It won’t bounce. And from what I hear, business in the blues clubs isn’t all that good.”

  I couldn’t argue. Black folks were running over to the Regal to hear the Isley Brothers rather than walk down the street to hear some blues. Just a few nights before Waterman showed up I played in front of exactly six people. I played like there was six hundred, but I couldn’t help but be a little down.

  “This will bring you up,” said Waterman. “This will take you where you need to be.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll try it for two weeks. I’ll tell my boss that I’m experimenting with you booking me, but to hold my job. That okay?”

  “That’s fine. You’ll see for yourself. There’s an audience for you out there.”

  Turned out that the audience was white. Our first gig, where I used my buddy A. C. Reed on sax, was the Canterbury House in Ann Arbor. It was filled with students from the University of Michigan. Feeling nervous, I took a few drinks first, then we went out there and exploded. Kids went nuts. We played so hard that, tripping over each other, we actually fell on our faces. That made the college kids love us even more.

  Out in the audience someone yelled out, “Hey man, you play Hendrix? Did Hendrix get his shit from you?”

  “Who’s Hendrix?” I asked.

  “You haven’t heard of Jimi Hendrix?” he wanted to know.

  “No.”

  “Sounds to me like he’s been taking your records to bed with him.”

  Next up was the Mariposa Folk Festival in Toronto. I was on the bill with Joni Mitchell, Tom Rush, and Richie Havens—names that were new to me. The scene in Toronto was Ann Arbor times a thousand. Must have been thirty thousand people out there, almost all white.

  When we arrived, someone said, “This is the real Buddy Guy.”

  I asked, “Who’s the fake Buddy Guy?”

  “Some guy Junior Wells has been playing with. Everyone’s been talking about that Hoodoo Man Blues record. Blues fans know you’re on that with him. So he’s been saying you’re in his band.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said, more amused than angry.

  Later I found out that the “fake” Buddy Guy who Junior had been using was Lefty Dizz.

  Toronto was wild. I was wild. I used my shoe to strike the guitar and my white handkerchief to pick the strings. I jumped off the stage and had the fans carry me around like I had been elected president of the United States. I even climbed up the light tower where the operator had the spotlight and played from up there. Didn’t know what else to do, so I took off my shirt and started unbuckling my pants when the light switched off and the fans screamed like I was the pied piper leading them to glory.

  Last gig was in Boston at Club 47, and that turned out good too.

  Time I got back to Chicago, the fact was clear: white people was paying good money to hear blues, especially young white people. Around this time they started calling kids with long hair hippies. The girls weren’t wearing no bras, and everyone was talkin’ ’bout free love. I liked that concept. Hippies also liked smoking weed. When they got high, they said the blues sounded better. Because the blues was raw and, like them, didn’t give a shit about the establishment, hippies loved them some blues.

  With this new feeling of hope, I told my boss at Litsinger Ford that I’d work there only long enough to train my replacement. He understood, and within a month I was gone. Ever since then I’ve made it on music and music alone.

  Dick Waterman, who helped Bonnie Raitt get started, was also helping some of the old Delta blues singers. It was Dick who brought back Son House. Son House meant a lot to me because he meant a lot to Muddy. He was one of the cats Muddy learned from. Muddy had nothing but love for the man.

  Waterman had been looking for Son for a long while when he found him—not in a corner of the Delta, but in Rochester, New York. Dick became his manager and brought him out on the road.

  Me and Son House was booked on the same show in California. I hadn’t met him yet, but when I got back to my motel room, Waterman had left me a note that said, “Don’t go to Son House’s room. Don’t give Son House any drink under any condition.”

  I was tired, so I started into napping when I heard the sound of an acoustic guitar from the next room. Sounded mighty pretty. Man was singing too, singing one of them Delta blues that make you think of your mama. Had to be Son House. Ignoring Dick’s instructions, I got up, grabbed my guitar, and went next door. I had to meet Son. He was a beautiful cat who was happy to hear me say how much Muddy loved him. He started playing a deep blues about a death letter until tears rolled down my face. I felt like Son House was my uncle or my daddy.

  I saw he’d been drinking—there was an open bottle on the dresser—but I didn’t care. I was so happy to be playing with him. The easy way his fingers picked the strings and the sweet honey pouring out of his voice let you know that he’d been at this his whole life. At this point I’d guess Son was pushing seventy.

  When Waterman got back and saw Son had been drinking, he flew into a rage. He figured I gave him the whiskey.

  “No, sir,” I said. “Didn’t give him nothing.”

  “Well, I packed his bag and checked it twice before we came out here,” said Dick. “I know there were no bottles in there.”

  “You should have checked your suitcase,” Son said slyly. “I done hid it in there.”

  Dick wasn’t happy, but I was laughing. When Son left the room, I had to tell Dick, “Look, these older cats have always played for a drink and maybe the chance to lay down with a lady. You can’t change their ways. Might as well give ’em the pleasure they earned.”

  In 1966 Willie Dixon called me to the Chess studio for a session on Koko Taylor, a blues singer from Memphis who’d been around Chicago a number of years. Leonard was eager to cut a hit on the lady. He had me, my drummer Fred Below, bassman Jack Myers, and Lafayette Leake on piano, plus a couple of horns. Willie wanted Koko to sing a song that he’d written and recorded on Howlin’ Wolf, “Wang Dang Doodle.” The story was about a gang of characters—Automatic Slim, Razor Totin’ Jim, Butcher Knife Totin’ Nancy, Fast Talkin’ Fannie—who were about to throw a wang dang doodle of a party. The Wolf didn’t have a hit on it, but Willie figured that if he changed up the groove and guitar lines, Koko could make it work.

  He asked me if I had any ideas, and I did. Found a way for the guitar to talk to the bass that added a funky flavor. Willie thought I gave it a new snap and stepped out of the way to let me produce the session. Koko sang the shit out of it. Turned into one of the biggest hits Chess had ever seen. At the time I didn’t know nothing about producer credit or producer money, and no one—not Willie or Leonard—was about to educate me.

  At the same time, English groups like Cream started having hits. The distorted fuzz tones I’d been fucking with for years was all the rage in England. Now that stuff was selling in America. Leonard’s son Marshall was still tr
ying to get his old man to let me loose on records, but the name of the Chess show was still father knows best.

  Leonard was cordial to me, but it wasn’t like I ever saw the inside of his house or even the inside of his office. I was just a cat he could count on for sessions. Far as my singles went, I didn’t have no big hits. So Leonard wrote me off. That’s why I was surprised when Marshall called me up to say his daddy wanted to see me. I knew it wasn’t to give me no royalties.

  “Buddy,” said Leonard Chess as he sat behind his office, “I’m a proud man.”

  I didn’t say nothing. I knew that was true.

  “I’m particularly proud,” he went on to say, “of my judgment in music. It’s been pretty good over the years. I’m also proud of my work in the studio. I’ve always thought I knew what I was doing.”

  I still didn’t know what he was getting at.

  “But when it came to you, I was wrong.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “I held you back. I said you were playing too much. I thought you were too wild in your style.”

  I had to smile, but I kept quiet.

  “But now I’m seeing these records coming over from England, Buddy, with these groups that are selling millions. And their guitars are even louder and wilder than yours!”

  Now I had to break out laughing.

  “American groups are starting to copy the English who are really just copying you.”

  “I’m not the only one they copying,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Leonard. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  He got up and came round his desk, looked me in the eye, and said, “I’m gonna bend over so you can kick my ass.”

  Now I was howling. I wished I had a photograph of this shit. Man, Leonard Chess was asking me to kick his ass!

  I was laughing too hard to kick anyone. Besides, it was enough to hear the man admit he was wrong. What came next, though, really surprised me.