And when House cut his magnificent Father Of The Country Blues comeback album the following year, Wilson was never far from his side in the studio, functioning simultaneously as coach, cheerleader and harp-and-guitar backup man. Vestine, in the meantime, had returned to California, spending a few grievously miscast months with a prototype line-up of Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention. Soon Wilson was to head west to join him in the formation of a band which would – in honour of a 1928 Tommy Johnson song – eventually be known as ‘Canned Heat’.
Meanwhile John Lee Hooker was poised for his second British tour of 1964. If Roy Fisher is correct, Hooker’s long-held nervousness concerning Newcastle in general and Mike Jeffery’s Club-A-Go-Go in particular may have its roots in one specific occurence during this jaunt.
‘It was without a doubt the best place that John played,’ says Fisher. ‘Yes, it did have its rougher element and I think he was kind of nervous about that, but it was really, really good. He was nervous in crowds, and because of the hit record, most places were jam-packed. In Newcastle it was big, and there were about eight hundred people packed into this place, which at that time in a club was a lot of people. The dressing room wasn’t at the side of the stage, it was at the back in the managerial offices, so to get him on stage we had to push him through the crowd, so I guess that’s probably what he means. In retrospect, I don’t think it was as dramatic as he thought of it at the time. Me, who’s not too tall, and John, who’s very very small – five foot seven – it was a problem to get him on stage, because we didn’t have any assistance, which at the time pissed me off as well. I had to manoeuvre him through this crowd. It was the first time in the whole tour that he hadn’t been on time to go on stage; most times, unlike many of the other blues singers I can recall, he was always very punctual. The band went on, they played their set, then they would play his intro music and he’d be standing at the side of the stage and then he’d come on. The Geordie reaction was incredible.’
They play the blues there every day and every night
Everybody monkeys and the beat, all right
Ask my friend Meyer, he’ll tell you so
There just ain’t no place like the Club-A-Go-Go . . .
The place is full of soul
Bottled soul, baby
It’s all right there
John Lee Hooker
Jerome Green . . . Rolling Stones
Memphis Slim up there
Jimmy Reed too, baby
Sonny Boy Williamson . . .
Eric Burdon & Alan Price for
The Animals’ ‘Club-A-Go-Go,’ 1965
Elsewhere, though, Hooker was about to discover the downside of Roger Miller’s fatuous assertion that ‘England swings like a pendulum do’. Penduli do indeed swing, but – almost inevitably – they eventually swing back.
11
MOTOR CITY IS BURNING
Fri
Oct 30
Jimmy Reed, Sugar Pie De Santo, The Dixie Cups on Ready Steady Go!
Sat
Oct 31
Saw Jimmy Reed at Club Noreik. Had to miss John Lee Hooker at Flamingo
Mon
Nov 2
Saw Carl Perkins, Tommy Tucker, The Animals at Gaumont State. Had to miss Jimmy Reed at Flamingo
Wed
Nov 4
Martha & Vandellas on Top of the Pops
Fri
Nov 6
Martha & Vandellas, Kim Weston on RSG
Tues
Nov 10
Martha & Vandellas on Pop Inn
Fri
Nov 13
Saw The Isley Brothers at East Ham Granada. Had to miss The Soul Sisters at Flamingo
Sat
Nov 14
Perkins, Tucker etc at Finsbury Park Astoria
Wed
Nov 18
Saw Jimmy Reed at Flamingo. Chatted with him for about an hour backstage. Great bloke
Thurs
Nov 19
Took some records to Jimmy’s hotel and had breakfast with him. Geezer called Al Smith from Vee Jay was there. Nice enough bloke but seemed more keen to talk about Betty Everett than Jimmy
Fri
Nov 20
Jerry Lee [Lewis], Marvin Gaye, The Stones on RSG
Sat
Nov 21
Saw Jerry Lee at Club Noreik
Mon
Nov 23
Saw Jimmy Reed at British Legion Hall, South Harrow. Had to miss Jerry Lee at Eltham Baths
Sat
Nov 26
Saw Howlin’ Wolf and Hubert Sumlin at Marquee.
Extract from British soul-rock guru Cliff White’s teenage
diary for November 1964
After the drought, the deluge. By the winter of 1964, the British Isles were knee-deep in transatlantic musical legends looking to carry the fight back to the home of the British Invasion. For fans endowed with the energy, tenacity, spare cash and geographical opportunity to gorge themselves on this musical feast, it was a dream come true: a veritable embarrassment of riches. This was, according to Cliff White, ‘a time when American blues, rock and soul originators were coming at us so thick and fast that we had to be slick to know which way to jump and they had to be bloody marvellous to even so much as justify their reputation, let alone create a lasting impression’.92
As the battle for the hearts, minds and wallets of British R&B fans intensified, John Lee Hooker defended his market share with admirable tenacity. His second British tour of 1964 commenced with the now-standard rituals of an appearance on Ready Steady Go! and a Melody Maker interview conducted by Max Jones. On the RSG set, he mimed to his latest EMI/Stateside single ‘I Love You Honey’ and subjected himself to a brief interview with Kenny Lynch,93 one of the show’s hosts. Valerie Wilmer recalls, with laughter, the contrast between Lynch’s chirpy black-Cockney questioning – ‘Woss’yer latest record, man?’ – and Hooker’s stuttering response – ‘Uh-whuh-wuh-wuh . . .’
‘He was sharing a dressing room with a very obnoxious Lulu, who was only sixteen and having her first hit record at the time,’ says Roy Fisher, ‘and the other guest was Gene Pitney, who he actually knew, which made John more relaxed, because he was very nervous about doing TV and miming.’
Not surprisingly, Hooker was rather more comfortable backstage with the familiar, reassuring figure of Max Jones. Indeed, his mood was effusive-verging-on-gushing and, in marked contrast to the glowering demeanour displayed in the photograph accompanying Jones’s story, he seized every opportunity to express his appreciation of his host country. ‘When I last came over,’ he told Jones, ‘things were a big surprise to me. Now it’s different again. More bluesmen have been over here from the States and gone over real good and . . . more kids are playing the blues and understanding it than even three months ago. It’s fantastic. They appreciate blues far more than American kids . . . here, they give the blues artist more respect than American fans do. I find that your younger people know the different songs and dig so deep into them, where the American youngsters wants to hear rock-’n’-roll all day. And some of your groups are so good at it. Gosh, I really dig it. That John Mayall group and [the] Groundhogs are definitely my favourites. They’re tremendously nice fellows and very good to work with. They try hard to do everything I want. I really was pleased to see those fellows when I arrived back in England.’
The Groundhogs were pleased to see Hooker, too; their experiences with other blues giants had not been nearly as enjoyable as the time they’d spent with John Lee. ‘He was always a gentleman, always polite,’ Fisher fondly remembers, ‘and in that way totally unique, unlike Little Walter or Jimmy Reed, who were totally uncouth. Ignorant, but in the worst possible way. Walter was obnoxious and bad-tempered and got upset very, very quickly. Jimmy Reed was okay on stage when he was playing, but in between times he drank too much and complained about absolutely everything. John said he wasn’t happy unless he was bitching about something; John put it down to the hard times that Reed had wi
th his women. You can be illiterate but still be well-mannered, which John was but the others were not.’
Hooker’s lack of formal education was causing him, inadvertently, to commit one serious breach of pop etiquette. ‘He’d have kids coming around asking for his autograph, and he’d refuse, and this happened a few times, so I took him aside and had a few words with him and said, “They expect you to sign your autograph, John, because you’re famous and this is what they expect you to do.” He was extremely embarrassed and upset about it and the outcome was that he pointed out that he’d never had any schooling so he couldn’t sign his name. I got a piece of paper and did a very flourishing “John Lee Hooker” and said, “Copy this, John, just sign this and they’ll be happy.” So he practises it a few times and the next time we went out and played there was this line of kids for autographs, and he was doing it very painstakingly: J-o-h-n-L-e-e-H-o-o-k-e-r. The line was getting longer and longer, and the band were getting ready to go back to the hotel or go to eat, and John would still be there signing his name, and it seemed like it was going to be forever and a day, and I’m thinking to myself, “Oh my God, what have I started?” But then, realising that it was taking too much time and he wanted to go and eat the same as everybody else, he started getting blasé and then it would be “JL Hooker” and then “JLH”, and then he was quite happy to sign the autographs and carry on, and the kids went away happy.’
In his autobiography All The Rage,94 former (Small) Faces keyboard guy Ian ‘Mac’ McLagan recalls that he and his mates from his pre-Small Faces R&B group the Muleskinners,
Saw John Lee Hooker put on a great show at the Ricky-Tick [club] in Reading, and afterwards I asked him for his autograph, which he graciously gave me. I handed him the only scrap of paper I had on me, which was a reminder from the finance company that my electric piano payment was overdue. It took him ages to sign it, because his handwriting was so shaky, and I watched fascinated as he drew the ‘H’, formed the two ‘o’s and then the ‘k’ and the ‘e’. Then he must’ve had enough, because he didn’t bother with the ‘r’. He added his initials underneath and handed it back to me without a word.
One significant change which occurred between the two 1964 tours was an augmentation of the Groundhogs’ line-up. ‘When he came back the second time we had a pianist, Tom Parker, and his parents came to [a local] gig. At the end they got introduced to John, and asked him whether he would like to come to their house the next day for lunch. And in his charming way he said, “Oh yes, that would be nice”, so the next day we all went over. So there we are all standing in the living room, chit-chatting away, drinks in hand, and John – who had a habit of clearing his throat and spitting – had the need to do that. So there we are with this fire blazing in the fireplace, and John clears his throat halfway through a conversation with Tom Parker’s mother and goes “ptoo” into the fireplace, which to him was a perfectly normal thing to do. The unfortunate thing about it was that it was an artificial log fireplace, and the look on Mrs Parker’s face was . . . I wish I’d had a camera at the time. However, with all due respect to the lady, she kept her composure absolutely wonderfully and carried on the conversation as if absolutely nothing had happened. Me and the rest of the group were clenching our teeth rather than laugh in her face. We’d had the experience with John’s spitting before, because it was the only time he’d wind the window down in the van, and we’d all duck hoping that it wouldn’t blow back in our faces.’
Despite the graciousness of his mother, Tom Parker hadn’t been the first choice for the Groundhogs’ piano seat: Bob Hall, the original incumbent, was eventually replaced because of his reluctance to quit his London-based day job. ‘I toured with Hooker and the Groundhogs for quite a long time,’ Hall told Norman Darwen, ‘although I never played on the one record they made together, because that was one of the many occasions I’ve been told, “If you don’t turn professional with us, you’re out of the band.” So I said, “I’m not going to go professional”, and the week after I left, they had this offer to make a record. The guy they got to play piano was a pub pianist [who] had never played blues before. I had to teach him to play blues, which I did because I wanted to be a help, but he couldn’t feel the way Hooker played. I’ve heard the record, and what Hooker had to do [was to] play his sequence and then . . . wait for the piano player to catch up, because Hooker’s things tend to be ten or eleven bars. It was made in IBC Studios. Hooker was great: he had two records in the charts when we were backing him, so we had crowds of people everywhere. It was a tremendous experience.’
Hooker had decided to stay on in London past the end of the tour, and brave a few more days of English winter in order to record with the Groundhogs; Melody Maker’s Max Jones was once again on hand to act as Hooker’s Boswell. ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Hooker told him, ‘this whole tour has been a complete success, and for their part the Groundhogs have been tremendous. I’m bound to say that . . . the Groundhogs are one of the number one best blues groups that you have over here, and it fits in with my type of music perfectly. Because it studies my style anyway, it knows how to work with me. Often the boys know what I’m going to do before I do it. John Mayall has a real good blues band too, but the Groundhogs, they fit better with what I do. Not that I’m taking anything away from Mayall. He has his own style, his own thing going. Oh, he’s good.
‘Anyway, I was so impressed with the Groundhogs on this tour that I contacted Calvin Carter of Vee Jay right away with a view to recording them over here. And I sent a demo disc of two songs by the group for him to hear. He phoned me back and then sent a cable saying he was coming over to London next week and would offer them a contract and record them here. He liked the acetate enough to want to record them with me and on their own. So I’m staying on three or four days to do the recording. The Groundhogs will be backing me, and that’s for Vee Jay who will release it in the States, also the Groundhogs’ single. What songs will I record here? I know one I’m going to do is “Seven Days And Seven Nights”, a new one of mine. I got some more too, but right now I’m undecided as to which to do. I want to say this: I’m very pleased that John Lee & the Groundhogs have been discovered because they’re too good a blues group to remain undiscovered. I tried to do something for them, and did do something for them, and I’m proud of them. I am sure they’ll become a great favourite of British blues fans, and they’ll be known in America a few months from now . . .’
For all Hooker’s generosity of intention, his optimism proved to be misplaced. One suspects Calvin Carter of a certain disingenuousness in this instance: after all, even if Hooker hadn’t quite realized it yet, Carter was aware that Vee Jay was in full retreat and facing the distinct possibility of complete extinction. It’s possible that Carter felt that, after Vee Jay had so comprehensively fumbled the Brit ball with the Beatles, the acquisition of another ‘English sensation’ could conceivably provide the company with last-minute salvation. It is also possible that he already knew full well that the label was ultimately a dead dog, and also that an inside track on a potentially profitable new British band might significantly enhance his chances of finding lucrative employment elsewhere in the record biz. Whatever the explanation – and since Calvin Carter is no longer around, we can’t ask him – he evidently considered that the price of a Chicago–London round-trip ticket was well worth the risk. As it happened, the label limped on until early ’66 – when its final Jerry Butler release entered the charts – before finally closing its doors, but by late ’64 they’d effectively withdrawn from the blues arena, leaving the likes of Hooker and Jimmy Reed high and dry. (It is little wonder, therefore, that Al Smith had ‘seemed more keen to talk about Betty Everett than Jimmy [Reed]’ to Cliff White.) Vee Jay continued to release Hooker material right up until the end – his final Vee Jay single, yoking ‘It Serves Me Right To Suffer’ to ‘Flowers On The Hour’, was issued as late as 1966 – but they were no longer interested in cutting any fresh sides on him. Which, as far as Hooker w
as concerned, meant that he wasn’t making any money.
Nevertheless, when the Groundhogs accompanied Hooker into IBC Studios in mid-November of 1964, they certainly proved their worth. In the rhythm section, drummer Dave Boorman and bassist Pete Cruikshank kept everything nailed down that was supposed to be nailed down, and everything swinging that was supposed to swing. On lead guitar, Tony McPhee presents impressive bluesical credentials. Like those Steady Eddies, Kirkland and Burns, he was able to Hookerize his own individual style to the point where he could create the illusion that John Lee had grown a second pair of hands and was simultaneously playing two guitars: indeed, sometimes the only way to tell which guitarist is playing what comes when McPhee zooms up to the ‘dusty end’ of the neck, where Hooker was traditionally reluctant to venture. As for the unfortunate Tom Parker, if he had indeed recently acquired all his blues chops in a crash course from Bob Hall, then these rocking, surprisingly assured performances do him considerable honour. His greatest limitation is, as Hall points out, that his inability to adapt to Hooker’s idiosyncratic metre straps the band – and John Lee himself – into the straitjacket of the orthodox twelve-bar sequence.
The resulting album was certainly no disgrace, but it remains a decidedly minor part of the Hooker canon. Though the album may not have been an absolute artistic triumph for Hooker, it was a considerable achievement for the fledgling Groundhogs, winning their spurs by keeping musical pace with an acknowledged master. Unsurprisingly, it was solidly located in the tradition of the Vee Jay sides which it was originally intended to complement. Equally unsurprisingly, it slotted straight into what the late Frank Zappa would have dubbed the ‘conceptual continuity’ of Hooker’s repertoire by casting light both forwards and backwards, not merely illuminating aspects of the work he’d already done and previewing songs and themes which would later attain their fullest flowering, but reflecting and transforming recent and current experience. ‘Seven Days And Seven Nights’, the new song which Hooker had mentioned to Max Jones and which ended up as the sort-of-title-track when the album crept into American stores as . . . And Seven Nights on Verve-Folkways Records in 1965, was a haunting free-form slow blues meditation incorporating a few lines of stock lyrics, also included in young Buddy Guy’s then-recent ‘Stone Crazy’, which would later serve as the foundation stone of the towering edifice which eventually became ‘Dark Room’. The slow blues variously entitled ‘It’s Raining Here’ and ‘Storming On The Deep Blue Sea’ on different editions of the record is a distant cousin of the Charles Brown ‘Drifting Blues’ which had, appropriately enough, ‘drifted’ in and out of Hooker’s repertoire for so long. Whilst ‘Go Back To School, Little Girl’, an intriguing variant on the Sonny Boy Williamson staple ‘Good Morning Little Schoolgirl’, may or may not be an explicit allusion to recent encounters with underaged fanettes, its message is nevertheless quite clear: ‘I’ll wait on you ’til you get [to be] twenty-one.’ Equally pressing and immediate concerns are expressed in ‘Don’t Be Messing With My Bread’: the song isn’t dedicated to Don Arden, though it might as well be.
Boogie Man Page 40