by Ray Manzarek
My mother and father had grown up in that area of Chicago, the Bridgeport area. They had gone to school, dated, courted, and were married on the fringes of that ghetto and had many friends who now ran the regular businesses that lined the streets of Halsted and 14th. Clothing, shoes, wholesale cosmetics and barber supplies, hardware stores and delicatessens. My father knew a lot of guys down there. And sometimes he’d take me into one of the wholesale outlets and we’d buy, for instance, a barbershop-sized bottle of Vitalis. Had to, cowlicks everywhere. After you washed your hair you had to put something on it to hold down those insane energy swirls that would send your midwestern golden corn-boy locks careening off in a hundred different directions. And with three boys and one adult male, well…we poured a lot of Vitalis on our heads.
Sometimes we would go in and buy a pair of shoes from some of the guys he knew. Sid’s Shoes. And he would introduce me: “Sid, this is my son.”
“Hey, Ray!” Sid had to acknowledge my father first. Certain rules of masculine protocol had to be followed before a young pup could be recognized. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s the wife, how’s the kids?”
“Helen’s fine. This is my oldest boy, Ray Jr.”
“Good-lookin’ boy, Ray,” said Sid.
“Raymond, say hello to Mr. Bernstein,” my father ordered.
“Hello, Mr. Bernstein. How are you, sir?” I had my polite hat squarely on my head.
Sid pumped my hand in a big bear handshake. “Well, I’m fine, Ray Jr. Thanks for asking.” He pumped a few more times, grinned, and finally released me. What a bear of a man. Big and tough, like all the kids of the immigrants who survived the trauma of the 1890s diaspora.
“You know, Ray,” he said to my father, “when that kid is ready to get a nice suit for graduation”—he turned to me—“what grade you in, kid?”
“Going on eighth grade, sir.”
“You bring him down here and I’ll fix him up with something sharp. We’ll take him next door to my brother’s shop. He’s got all the latest goods.” The brothers Bernstein were very fashion conscious. Very au courant—but strictly in a street-smart way. And ten months later I did it. For graduation from Everett School, my father bought me—from the Bernstein brothers—one of the sharpest suits I’ve ever worn in my life. It was a one-button roll in a deep and cool blue color. Not a business blue but a sort of crazed and electric blue. Very cool.
And I wore it with a pink “Mr. B” collared shirt. A wide-sweeping wing collar, all soft and pliable for the rolling under of the collar points. It looked as though the wings of a Pan Am Clipper or a TWA four-engine cross-continental flyer were attached to my neck. It was all the rage. It was simply “too cool.” And, dig this, I wore that shirt with a lime green tie! To my grammar school graduation. Oww! Look out…the kid was sharp! Looked like Bo Diddley or something, with a whole jelly-roll kind of thing going on.
After we left Mr. Bernstein—Sid’s Shoes—it was time for lunch, and my father introduced me to the delights of a delicatessen. It was the first time I had ever experienced a corned-beef sandwich. We walked into one of the delis down on Halsted Street and the divine smells hit my nose. I inhaled deeply and I thought, I am in meat heaven. The garlic and the spices from the steam tables…ambrosia. Huge mounds of corned beef and pastrami and rye bread. All sliced and ready to go. Mountains of sautéed onions and Chicago hot dogs. On a grill, dozens of them with crisped skin, sizzling away. Just waiting to become one of those famous Chicago red-hots.
“You wanna red-hot?! Hey, kid, want a red-hot? Ray, you want a corn beef?” The jowly man behind the counter greeted my father. Another old friend from his youth, Marty Glickman.
“A pastrami on rye, Marty. Easy on the mustard,” he called back. “Hot dog for you, Ray?” he asked me.
I nodded, salivating like a hound dog.
“Red-hot for Ray Jr., Marty.” He thought for a beat, touched his stomach, and said, “Make it a corned beef, instead. My stomach’s acting up again.” (And now mine does, too.)
“You want mustard then, Ray?”
“Easy, Marty. You got a heavy hand, my friend.”
Marty laughed and his jowls bobbled. Years of corned beef had disappeared into that maw of his, and it showed. He plopped down a couple of plates, piled on the grilled onions, and set a foot-high overstuffed sandwich on one and what looked to be at least a two-foot-long red hot dog in a poppy-seed bun on the other. Wow!
I wolfed that dog. My father inhaled his corned beef. And we were stuffed and contented. I sat back…and burped. Man, what an experience. It was a nose experience. An olfactory experience like my aural experience of hearing the blues at Hoyne Playground. Another new world had opened itself to me. And I was ready!
We walked out of the deli happy males, and off into the swarm of the Turkish bazaar. Down Maxwell Street. On our way to the blues.
Because on the next corner…there it was. A guy with an electric guitar and a small amp—a cord running into someone’s house to power it—and another guy on snare drum. And they were laying down the funk. Laying down a tinny, amp-distorted, primitive electric blues. And they were in a trance. Off in another place. The guitar player’s eyes were closed and he sang into a small microphone. Songs of love lost and love found. Songs of bondage and songs of redemption. Songs filled with the tragedy and fragility of life on planet earth. His voice was a reedy tenor that cut through the air like a switchblade. The drummer’s eyes had sort of rolled back in their sockets and only the whites were showing beneath half-closed lids. I thought at first he was a blind man, but he was just tranced out. And he was laying down a very insistent rhythm that locked into a pattern and never varied. The same little shuffle over and over; probably the very thing responsible for their trance state.
And I, too, was transfixed. This was what I had heard on the radio. But live! Dudes were actually doing it live, in the street. In the flesh. And the flesh was made funky. And, Lord, it was good. I thought, This is unreal. This is absolutely unreal.
I thought to myself, White people are not capable of this. There is a soul here, there is a grace, there is a dignity, there is a passion, and there is another place that you can go to that white people just can’t. Not in the early 1950s. It was unheard of. It was an unattainable state of consciousness that was simply not allowed. It was labeled “Whites need not apply.” Thank God, what has happened since is that rock and roll has opened up that area of passion to white people. We are all able to share in the power of the rhythm through the genius of blues masters like Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf and John Lee Hooker and Jimmy Reed and Little Walter. They unlocked the door for us and then the rockers ripped it off its hinges. Chuck Berry and Little Richard exploded! They were the twin inventors, the Castor and Pollux, of the empire of rock and roll.
Hail, hail, rock and roll
deliver me from the days of old
Long live rock and roll.
—Chuck Berry
Tutti frutti, aw-rooti!
—Little Richard
After graduation from Everett, a public elementary school, I entered St. Rita High School. A private parochial school…and all boys. The Catholic high schools were sexually divided. All girls, all boys. And it was very depressing. Guys. Nothing but pubescent guys. Two thousand guys at St. Rita. All sweaty, funky, horny, full of anger, full of semen, and ready for something. What, nobody knew…but ready anyway. Except, what are you going to do, take it out on each other? There’s no reason to. It’s just a bunch of guys. There were hardly any fights or any trouble at St. Rita. A couple of guys would shove each other once in a while. So what? It would never escalate beyond that because there were no girls. There were no girls around to show off for. It was just a bunch of guys. Two thousand guys. Man, it was depressing.
The classes were very rigorous, however. The teachers were excellent. Dominican priests in long brown monk’s cassocks. Complete with hood and braided rope belt around the waist. It was a good look. Very scholarly, very
medieval. God bless those men, they had devoted their lives to the teaching of young goof-offs. Young sperm bags with nary a thought in their heads except their dicks. High IQs, though. And the priests were actually able to get through to us. They all had a different style for accomplishing the impossible. Father Crawford would punch out your lights if necessary. He was the vice-principal and boxing team coach. Teachers could hit students in those days—in Catholic schools only, not in public schools. Although it rarely happened at St. Rita, the threat was always there, and by God it kept the maniacs in line, tethered on a short leash of fear. Father Foley, on the other hand, would make you laugh. He was the Latin teacher, and the dryness of that dead language required an antidote of levity and wit. He was brilliant. Father O’Malley’s approach was to smother everyone with love, attention, and mothering. He would always commiserate with your problems. You could talk to him about anything and he was on your side.
Anything but sex, of course. The subject was taboo. They were priests and they were celibate. I always wondered how it was possible for them. It seemed so unnatural and yet they were good men. Plugged in and modern. Intelligent. Worthy of emulation. Every boy in that school had entertained the thought of joining the priesthood. All Catholic boys do. So had I. But the idea of never being able to dip your wick…well, impossible. And no pud pulling, either. Masturbation, my friends, is a mortal sin; and that means you will burn in hell forever and ever in the hellfires of eternal damnation. Not going to Mass on Sunday…you will go to hell and burn forever in the hellfires of eternal damnation. Knowingly eat meat on Friday? Hellfire of eternal damnation. Sex before marriage? Eternal damnation. Abortion? Most definitely hellfire! Use a condom…more hellfire. What a lot of burning and pain and suffering…and for all eternity. Lord, have mercy.
Eventually, I had to turn to the words of the heart master himself, Jesus the Christ. And in contrast to the official Catholic party line, they felt awfully good. They were: love, love, love. Love everything. Love everything and everyone! Love the whole, good earth and love thy neighbor as thyself. Love it all, my friends. It makes eminent sense. It feels real good. And we can all be the Buddha!
What got me through four years of high school was the radio in Chicago. Rhythm-and-blues stations. Al Benson and Big Bill Hill. DJs of soul and grit. The real stuff. On the radio and snaking. Al Benson all afternoon and early evening. Big Bill Hill from nine o’clock till well beyond midnight.
Id come home after school, turn on the radio, and there they were. My heroes. The men. The giants. And it was all taken for granted by Al Benson.
“Here’s a new single we just got in by Muddy Waters. Let’s give it a spin. It’s called ‘Hoochie Coochie Man.’”
And he would play it. And it was incredible. The most soulful harp I’ve ever heard. The tightest groove. The most dangerous singing. And the most evil implications, simply by the nature of the song’s existence and Muddy’s performance of Willie Dixon’s classic….
I got a black cat bone
I got a mojo, too
I got a John the Conqueror root
I’m gonna mess with you (Lord, have mercy)
I’m gonna make you girls
Lead me by the hand
Then the world will know
That’s a hoochie coochie man.
And the whole band hit the chord change! Little Walter, Otis Spann, and the boys, rocking. And the top of my head rose up. Kundalini uncoiled and set shivers up my spine. The band wailed. Muddy told you that he, indeed, was that hoochie coochie man…and I was gone again. What a fucking piece of music! Today it’s a classic…then it was merely the latest single by Muddy Waters on Chess Records. It came out of the void, unknown. And it was thrilling. It was part of a great wave of inspiration that swept over the blues men of South Side Chicago.
The radio was on fire with “hit singles,” except they weren’t pop songs. They were blues classics! And they were brand new. Fresh out of the recording studio, hot-pressed onto vinyl, rushed over to the radio station, blasted onto the airwaves, and roaring out of radio speakers into my fevered brain. Dionysus had entered me…through the ears!
And it was nonstop. “Here’s a new record by Howlin’ Wolf.” And out came “Smokestack Lightnin.” It killed me. The repetitive riff of that great classic. No chord changes! One chord over and over. Hammering at your rhythm center. Over and over. Funky, dark, gritty, evil. Over and over. The same chord. The same riff. Again and again and again. Trance state…here I come. My radio was hypnotizing me. The Howlin’ Wolf had me in his control. And his words…
Smokestack Lightning, shining just like gold.
—Howlin’ Wolf
And he would howl and cry like a lost wolf. Crying for his lost love. Alone and afraid, vulnerable and yet powerful. A man. A real mensch. What a voice.
And what on earth do those words mean? What is smokestack lightning and why is it shining just like gold? I still don’t know. And I love it. So fucking mysterious. A man wailing like a wolf and the musical riff repeating over and over. Dark and nasty bends in the blue notes. The same chords, the same notes. Over and over and over, burning a hypnotic hole into your mind, consuming your consciousness. A mantra. A black American mantra. My later studies of yogic mantra meditation opened the door to India and the inner energy of the human form. Howlin’ Wolf opened the door to Dionysus…and he leapt in through my ears.
“Here’s a new one by my good friend Bo Diddley,” Al Benson would say to me. “Who Do You Love?” And we were off again. This time riding that Bo Diddley beat. That African tribal drumbeat over which Bo so coolly floated his dark and dangerous words:
Tell me, hoodoo you love?
—Bo Diddley
Dig it. Hoodoo you love. The juju and the voodoo and the gris-gris and the hoodoo were all walking around in my room, after school…and in my brain!
And then John Lee Hooker would jump out of my radio—after a commercial for Dixie Peach Hair Pomade—and he would be singing his latest hit, “Boogie Chillun.” And then Jimmy Reed would sing, “You got me runnin’, you got me hidin’.” Magic Sam…“I’m a king bee.” It’s all on my radio. It’s all new. The classics are brand new and swimming in my head. All of this inspiration is on my radio and I’m fifteen, sixteen years old. I’m a sophomore at St. Rita High School with two thousand guys. Nothing is going on. I’ve never been laid. I don’t know if I’d even kissed a girl. How do you meet a girl? How do you talk to a girl? But on the radio it was just smoking. It was pure sex, pure energy, pure power, and pure passion. And I loved it! My friends, the radio saved my life. It saved my soul.
Then…Elvis Presley on TV! A summer replacement show for the Jackie Gleason Hour. We always watched Jackie Gleason, a family ritual. Sid Caesar, too. And anything with Laurel and Hardy. The Twilight Zone. Boxing for my father and baseball, basketball, and football for me. That was the Manzarek family viewing regimen. Throw in some Playhouse 90 and other TV dramas—great dramas in the fifties—and that’s what we watched on the tube.
The summer replacement was on. My parents were watching, ritualistically, the Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey Show, the band for Jackie Gleason. And one of the guest artists that week was none other than Elvis Presley. On national TV! I was in another room, reading or pud pulling or doing something teenage. I wasn’t going to watch a corny old big band on television, I was a blues boy…and my mother calls me. “Raymond! Raymond, come in here! You better see this guy. He’s a real cool cat. You like this kind of stuff.” And I hear from the TV, “Well, it’s one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go cat go!” I leap out of my chair, run into the living room, look at the TV and there’s Elvis Presley doing “Blue Suede Shoes.” What a killer! He just blew me away. Finally, a white guy doing it. Doing the blues. I’d been listening to all the black guys doing it. I wanted to be like them. I’m trying to imitate a black guy; doing Muddy and Jimmy Reed on the piano, John Lee Hooker and Howlin’ Wolf to the best of my abilities—my limited abilitie
s—and here’s a white guy doing the bop on TV. He was dressed in a cream-colored suit, a dark shirt, and a cream-colored tie. Looked like he was wearing blue suede shoes, too. He had Scottie Moore on guitar, he had Bill Black on bass, and D. J. Fontana on drums. And they were kicking it! They were rocking the boob tube. Elvis was singing in that lush, deep voice of his and wiggling his pelvis in a most Dionysian fashion. They had it! My eyeballs fell out of my head. Wow! “I told you you’d like it,” my mother said, grinning smugly, when the song ended. “Yes, ma’am!” And then he did another. And it was cool and rocking, too. What was so cool about it was that it was a country kind of thing. It wasn’t the big-city Chicago sound with the mournful wailing that I was used to. It was a little…lighter. It was white. Acoustic guitar on Elvis, stand-up bass, electric country blues guitar, and drums. It was rockabilly. The soul of the black man had entered into the white man. The honky could now understand and respect the Negro. The promised land was in sight. And the floodgates just exploded with rock and roll!
After Elvis was on TV, the radio went rock crazy. Little Richard was on the radio doing “Tutti Frutti.” Jerry Lee Lewis doing “Good Rockin’ Tonight.” Chuck Berry singing, “Roll Over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news!” Fats Domino, “I’m Walkin’.” Bill Haley and the Comets, “Rock Around the Clock.” Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps singing, “Be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby.” It was rock and roll madness. It was the first wave of rock and the first time white America had heard anything like it. It was wild and dark and dangerous. Every white kid in America went totally bonkers, totally insane, and just went absolutely fuck-crazy! And the parents knew….“This is the end. This is the end of Western civilization as we now know it. Our teenage daughters are completely gone. And they’re listening to this wild, insane, crazed music. This sexually explicit music.” And the boys, who were sex mad to begin with anyway, now had this thrusting, gyrating pelvic movement of Elvis Presley to try on the daughters of America. We went mad!