by Renée Rosen
“That’s only two stations,” he said. “And LaRoy didn’t say he wouldn’t play it. He just wouldn’t commit on the spot. And don’t forget, we still got Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas and Louisiana to hit.”
As Leonard talked to the different deejays, Leeba watched him in action. He had a rapport with people, whites and Negroes. He swaggered into radio stations and record stores and he had his spiel down: Aileen Booker, the female Howlin’ Wolf.
Leeba stood back, watching the expressions change on people’s faces when they heard “Jealous Kinda Love.”
“She soundin’ kinda rough,” said a record store owner in Chattanooga. “I ain’t sure I can sell a song like that.”
The three of them were moving from town to town so quickly that Leeba had no way of knowing what happened after they left a radio station, a record store or a distributor. Leonard was dropping twenties and fifties along the way, but it didn’t seem to matter. The deejays took the money and that appeared to be the end of it. Her heart sank, her hopes fading like the fields in the rearview mirror.
They spent six days traveling, Leonard’s Cadillac bouncing along the bumpy dirt roads. Sometimes they had to roll the windows up—even in the heat—just to keep the dust out. They passed a sign for Merrydale and Leeba thought about Red growing up here and how hard it must have been. Now he was up North touring with Muddy. Seeing where he’d started from made her appreciate his journey all the more.
As the miles rolled by, Leeba watched America’s portrait pass outside her window. Things she’d only heard or read about were right before her eyes: the mighty Mississippi, the swamplands and plantations, endless fields of cotton, soybeans and sugar cane, dotted with sharecroppers and huge plumes of dust kicking up from the tractors in the distance.
The people in the little towns along the way were poor, all sitting on their front stoops or gliders on their porches, listening to the radio. Leeba noticed that the trees had bottles turned upside down and shoved down onto the branches. Aileen explained that those were there to trap the evil spirits and keep them from getting into the houses. Leeba tilted her head, watching how the blue- and green- and brown-colored glass gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Each time they got out and walked around, stopping at a radio station or record store, Leeba noticed how the townspeople down South were as different as the land. Back home everyone was in a hurry, keeping to themselves, not paying attention to anyone or anything, but here folks ambled down the sidewalks and every single person they passed—without exception, white or Negro—stopped to say, “Hey, how y’all doing?” Leeba did notice, however, that the whites directed their greetings to Leeba and Leonard, not even acknowledging Aileen.
They went from Helena, Arkansas, to Oxford, Mississippi, zigzagging across state lines with no rhyme or reason. Leonard followed his gut and not a map. On a whim they went to a barbershop in Clarksdale and while Leonard got a haircut and shave, the owner played a razor strop. He had a way of dragging that straight edge against the leather belt that filled his little shop with its own kind of rhythm, its own kind of blues. The next day they found themselves at a juke joint in Winona, where an old wrinkly bluesman played a washboard with a pair of spoons. It seemed like there wasn’t anything they couldn’t turn into music down South.
• • •
After stops at radio stations and record stores in Jackson, Natchez, Zachary and Baton Rouge, they arrived in New Orleans. A city had sprung from the fields and swamps of the South and its sophistication was a stark contrast from where they’d been. The streets were crowded, packed with stores, restaurants, saloons and hotels—none of which would accept Aileen as a guest. So Leonard arranged for them to stay with friends in the Garden District. They had a big house with fancy ironwork down the front, their street dressed with colorful beads draped over the tree branches and power lines, the ghosts of Mardi Gras past.
After dropping off their suitcases and freshening up, Leonard took Leeba and Aileen to another station where he went through his sales pitch. The deejay clearly liked the music. He was tapping his toes, snapping his fingers, nodding to the beat.
“You know what you oughta do with that,” the deejay said after listening to the rest of the song. “You oughta go back home and have one of your boys rerecord it.”
“What the hell’s wrong with the recording we got?” asked Aileen. “You’re damn lucky we came in here to see you at all.”
“Leeba?” Leonard gave her a warning look and she went and placed her hand on Aileen’s shoulder to steady her.
“C’mon,” said the deejay. “What you expect when you bring me a girl singer?”
“It ain’t over yet,” Leonard said to the girls the next day as they pulled up to the Court of Two Sisters restaurant in the French Quarter.
“What are we gonna do here?” asked Aileen, her arms folded across her chest in a huff. “Have ourselves a po’boy?”
“We’re gonna get this song on the air. That’s what we’re gonna do.” He grabbed a record and Leeba followed him inside. Aileen used the colored entrance and met them in a back room.
“Welcome, ladies, to WMRY.” Leonard made a sweeping gesture with his hand. When he introduced them to Vernon “Dr. Daddy-O” Winslow, he said, “This here motherfucker is the first colored deejay in New Orleans and he broadcasts his show from right here in the back of the restaurant.”
Dr. Daddy-O shook their hands, welcoming them to New Orleans.
“I want you to listen to this.” Leonard held up the 78. “It’s a hit. I feel it in my bones. Give it a play on the air. That’s all I’m asking. Just give it a chance.”
Dr. Daddy-O didn’t seem convinced, so Leonard reached in his pocket and slipped a fifty inside the sleeve, hoping it would change his mind. Apparently it didn’t.
“I’m gonna try one more place,” he said to Leeba and Aileen as they headed for WJMR. There they met with a deejay who called himself Poppa Stoppa. He was white, but he loved race music and he loved Aileen’s record, especially when Leonard slipped another couple twenties into the sleeve.
“I don’t know if folks are ready for this or not, but there’s only one way to find out.” He winked, pushed a button and spoke to his listeners: “This is Poppa Stoppa coming to you live from WJMR, and I have something brand spankin’ new for y’all. Coming out of Chicago this here is Miss Aileen Booker—you heard right. Not Mister but Miss Aileen with ‘Jealous Kinda Love.’”
Poppa set the needle down and Aileen’s voice filled the station, filled the airways. Leeba had imagined this moment for so long, hearing their song over the radio. She thought about all the people listening at that very moment. She pictured radios and transistors on kitchen counters, on cluttered desks, in speeding cars all blasting “Jealous Kinda Love.” It was the moment they’d waited for, prayed for and worked for, and it was over before they knew it. Afterward Leeba looked around the studio—at the records mounted on the walls, at the turntable already spinning with the next song. Afterward nothing had changed.
“Now what happens?” Aileen asked as they got back in the car.
“Now we wait,” said Leonard. “We wait and see.”
That night Aileen and Leeba stayed close to the radio, running up and down the dial, looking and hoping, but they never heard their song again. The next morning they began making their way back home. It seemed as if it had all been for nothing. Leonard’s Cadillac was pulling out of New Orleans and no one was saying a word. No one spoke of the disappointment, but the letdown was palpable. It settled into the car like a fourth passenger. The air was filled with Leonard’s cigarette smoke and the Dominoes singing “Sixty Minute Man.”
They hadn’t eaten anything yet and Leonard knew of a diner that served breakfast all day long and to anyone coming through the door, colored or white. He and Muddy had been there for coffee and flapjacks. Leeba poked at her food. The radio was playing “Rocket �
��88’” and that lifted Leonard’s spirits some. Aileen was nonplussed and Leeba feared her friend was already sinking. She could feel Aileen’s sorrow mounting on top of her own.
Leonard paid the bill and they were starting back to the car when the song came on the radio. They all heard the opening chords and sat back down.
Leonard cracked a smile.
Leeba reached out and gripped Aileen’s arm. “That’s you. That’s us.”
There it was. “Jealous Kinda Love” coming over the radio on WJMR. Leeba was still clutching Aileen’s arm. It was out there like a flash and then it was gone, replaced by John Lee Hooker’s “Boogie Chillen’.”
“What does this mean?” Aileen asked when they were back in the car, pulling out onto the dusty road.
“Means that at least Poppa Stoppa likes us. It’s a start. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
They were back on the road. The closest town was Baton Rouge and it was just them and open country. Leeba leaned her head back and closed her eyes while Leonard fiddled with the radio, squeaking up and down the dial, until he heard something that sounded familiar.
Leeba’s eyes flashed open. At first she thought it was Poppa Stoppa playing their record again, but no, this time it was Dr. Daddy-O—the colored deejay who hadn’t been interested just the day before was now talking it up on his show.
“That’s a mighty big voice comin’ outta a little lady by the name of Aileen Booker and that was her new record, ‘Jealous Kinda Love’ . . .”
By the time they got to Jackson they’d heard their song six times. Each time it came over the radio, Leeba squealed and Aileen bounced up and down, pounding her hands on the seat.
Leonard went to a pay phone and called Phil. Leeba and Aileen cheered and yelped when they heard him say, “Hey, Phil, get ‘Jealous Kinda Love’ over to Benson at WGES and don’t leave until that motherfucker plays it on the air. We got us a hit.”
THIRTY-TWO
• • •
“Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out”
RED
Red sat on the side of the bed in a dump of a motel. He heard the bedsprings squeaking and the headboard banging against the thin wall that separated Muddy’s room from his. The girl was young. Probably too young. Muddy had spotted her in the front row. The night before, it was a different girl from a different club in a different motel, in a different town. But always it was the same.
The moaning coming from Muddy’s room competed with the radio, so Red raised the volume and tried to focus on the newspaper. He was reading an article about the demise of the Communist Party’s membership and glanced up at the masthead: the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. For a moment he’d forgotten what city they were in. Tomorrow they’d head for Detroit and after that, Cleveland . . . Or was it Cincinnati? He couldn’t keep it straight.
Being on the road was harder than he’d expected. The venues were getting bigger. The crowds were growing, too. Especially when he went on tour, opening for Howlin’ Wolf or, like he was this time, for Muddy. One minute he’d be up on stage surrounded by fans, everybody watching him, clapping for him, wanting a part of him. But after that last song, everyone went away. It was like the match got blown out. He’d walk off the stage with the loneliest feeling sinking down inside him. He was always surprised by how much emptiness was there. Where it came from he couldn’t say, but even Leah wasn’t enough to fill that void. That part of him was always hungry for more, and never really satisfied.
A loud roar and rounds of giggles came from next door. Red rolled onto his side, lit a cigarette and thought about Leah. With both of them on the road, moving from city to city, there was no way to communicate directly, so they’d call in to Chess and leave messages for each other. According to Phil, who was back at the office, Leah should be getting home any day now. Red missed her and was hoping to get back to Chicago for a few days to see her before heading back out on the road with Little Walter. Twenty cities, twenty dates. Then it was back in the studio to make a new record. It was exhausting, and when he caught himself complaining he reminded himself that this was what he’d prayed for and that he’d better be grateful or else God would take it away.
The racket next door kicked up a notch. Red ground out his cigarette, set the newspaper aside and closed his eyes. He was already drifting a thousand miles away from that motel when he heard something over the radio that pulled him right back to the present. His eyes flashed open, his pulse stepped up.
“. . . And this one’s a new song coming out of Chicago. A big number by Miss Aileen Booker called ‘Jealous Kinda Love’ . . .”
He sat up, sprang to his feet and pounded on the wall—“Muddy, Mud, turn on the radio. It’s them. Are you listening?” If he couldn’t share this moment with Leah, then Mud would have to do. Only, Muddy was too preoccupied to care that his woman had made her dream come true. But Red knew how hard the girls had worked; he remembered how frustrated Leah had been when Leonard wouldn’t release the record, how she’d started to doubt herself. And now there they were—Leah and Aileen—on the radio. It felt no less magical than the first time he’d heard himself on the radio, singing “Cross Road Blues.” At first it was disbelief—like you were imagining it because you wanted it so bad. But then you realized it was actually happening and the pride bubbled up inside and you could hardly contain it—like it was pressurized—and it made you feel ten feet tall.
Muddy was still going at it with the girl, but after hearing that song, Red didn’t care how much noise they were making. He was too excited to sleep anyway.
• • •
The next day, after a long bus ride, Red, Muddy and their bands turned up in Detroit. It was getting late and they had just enough time to grab some grub before heading over to the Palms Theater and going on stage. Muddy was flirting with the waitress, telling her to come see his show.
“Good Lord,” said Red, pulling the napkin from his collar, “how much pussy can one man handle?”
“Never can get me ’nuff,” said Muddy, his eyes on that waitress’s ass. “How come I don’t see you getting none? There be pretty womens all around.”
“You know I got Leah. And you got a wife, too. And Aileen. And a—”
“Yeah, but they all the way back home.”
Red shook his head, laughed. “Well, if you’re gonna get that girl’s number, you best do it now. It’s time for us to get going.”
An hour later Red opened for Muddy before a packed house. From the stage, silhouetted against the spotlights, he saw a sea of faces, people up in all the balconies, too. He was playing the song that had started it all, “Cross Road Blues.” He was playing hard and as he closed his eyes a bead of sweat formed along his lashes. He blinked it away, looking through the glare of the stage lights and the haze of cigarette smoke. He closed his eyes again, letting the music lift him up off that stage, take him someplace far, far away. He was a kid again, practicing in secret with his granddaddy, going over and over the chords. Then he was a young man playing those juke joints. From there it was up to Chicago, where he started from scratch all over again. A burst of applause brought him back to the stage and, just like that, the song was over.
Red and his band finished their set and he stood in the wings toweling off while Muddy took the stage. Red was beat; he felt wrung out and was wondering how he’d find the energy to finish the tour.
But the next day they left for another town, and the last few cities after that blurred together, until they were all back on the bus, heading for Chicago.
It was early evening when they arrived in town. Red caught a ride with some of the guys, who dropped him at Fifty-seventh Street. He didn’t mind walking the few blocks, even with his guitar and suitcase. He was anxious to get home. He’d tried calling Leah from the road a few times, but there had been no answer at the apartment. Before they left Cincinnati, Red had put another call in to Chess, and Phil had s
aid that because the record was doing so well Leonard and the girls decided to hit a few more cities on the way back. That was two days ago and Red just hoped Leah would be waiting for him when he got there.
The sun was starting to set, leaving bands of pink and orange in the sky. The air was sticky, humid, and carried the scent of fresh-cut grass. A group of young white guys, maybe a half dozen or so, probably in their late teens, were hanging around on the street corner outside their apartment building. One of them, a tow-haired young man, sat perched on a fire hydrant. They were all smoking cigarettes, drinking from brown paper bags. Red felt their eyes on him as he walked by and climbed the stairs to the apartment.
The hallway was quiet, no barking, a sure sign that Sophie was still with Revetta and that Leah wasn’t back in town yet. He keyed into the apartment. It was dark and hot inside. He turned on a light and as he went to open the windows he saw Leah getting out of Leonard’s Cadillac with her suitcase. As the taillights on Leonard’s car disappeared around the corner, he called down to her from the open window before he raced out of the apartment to meet her.
As he flew out the front door the first thing he saw was Leah’s suitcase lying on the grass. He looked over and those boys who’d been hanging around on the corner had now surrounded her, and Red heard them taunting her.
“You’re not a bad-looking woman,” the tow-haired guy said. “You could get yourself a white man, you know.”
“Leave her alone,” said Red, heading toward them. She looked panicked.
The guys turned around and one of them, the biggest and huskiest of them, shoved Red back. “You better shut your mouth, boy,” he said.
The towheaded guy stepped closer to Leah. He wasn’t much taller than her, and Red saw the spiteful way she eyed him. “I think it’s ’bout time we show this nigger lover here what a real man’s all about.” He placed his hand on Leah’s neck.