Tales of a Road Dog: The Lowdown Along the Blues Highway

By Ron Levy

"Tales of a Road Dog - The Lowdown Along the Blues Highway" is a humorous, historical and compelling eye witness account of Ron Levy's musical journey of 40 plus years among the greatest legends in the Blues/Jazz/Soul worlds. It is an anthology of countless inside, behind the scene stories about those legendary greats, the "tales" you'll never find anywhere else. Also included, is a download link to his newest critically acclaimed album "Funky Fiesta!"

Ron Levy has been a participant and contributor to an enormous body of music, from his earliest sideman work with Albert & B.B. King, Roomful of Blues, and as a solo artist, producer & record label owner. Levy is also one of the very few artists who made the transition from Blues to Soul-Jazz music and recorded with the likes of Freddie Hubbard, Melvin Sparks, David T. Walker, Idris Muhammad and other Soul-Jazz originators/inventors. All of these historical facts makes "Tales Of A Road Dog" a must read for anyone who has followed innovative American roots music over the last five decades.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626752702

Book preview

Levy/Levtron.com

CHAPTER 1 - In the Beginning

Although I hardly realized it at the time, Boston, Massachusetts, in the middle 1960's was an incredible place to grow up; I was routinely exposed to some of the greatest musicians in the world! My friends and I were able to satisfy our hunger for music at every turn. On Sunday afternoons, after the NY Giants game on TV, for a mere $5 we would go downtown on the MTA's Greenline trolley car from Brookline for 25 cents each way. We'd then proceed to Signor Pizza to grab a slice and a Coke for $1. Next to Signor Pizza, Billy Wilson Jacobs -- a classmate and aspiring drummer -- and I would saunter downstairs to The Jazz Workshop's Sunday matinee. We'd sit as close as possible to the bandstand, order the required minimum order of a Coke, shyly admire the beautiful waitresses and soak up the likes of Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Lee Morgan, George Benson and Lonnie Smith, Horace Silver's Quintet, The John Coltrane Quartet with McCoy Tyner & Elvin Jones, Wes Montgomery, Les McCann, Jimmy Smith, Kenny Burrell, Lou Rawls, Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock, Buddy Rich's Big Band, Brother Jack McDuff, Dizzy Gillespie, Sonny Rollins and many others.

I remember sitting right in front of Coltrane one time and leaving there dizzy after a solo of his which lasted a good 45 minutes, exploring every possible conceivable and inconceivable rhythmic and harmonic possibility yet to be known to the mathematics of music. The blur of Wes Montgomery's thumb and that huge serene smile of his all while playing 200-mph and laughing most of the way, soundly resonates in my mind still. Art Blakey's drum solos sounded like ten drummers at once. Halfway through, he'd jump up from his drum set and start playing on the tables, the walls, the pipes hanging down from the ceiling, people's drink glasses, beer bottles, the chairs, the legs of chairs making a huge circle around the club and finally returning to his throne and producing sudden earthquakes of poly-rhythms, thunderstorms of meters and lightning-effect sizzling crash cymbals. Jimmy Smith would grunt ungodly noises while his greased, electric shockwaves of fast riffs and pulsing bass stirred every cell inside, cajoling that 400-pound B-3 beast into total submission. We never left the same as we came in.

Across the Charles River in Cambridge, next to the Harvard Co-op in Harvard Square, was another downstairs club called Club 47, a coffee house. Its seating capacity was maybe 50-60 when packed. This was during the so-called Folk Era, and Club 47 showcased all the great folk artists, but we went there for the Blues. We saw and got to hangout and meet all the greats from Chicago's tough South and West sides, all in a basement room the size of a large den. I think the cover charge was a few dollars, maybe $5 or $10 if it was a very popular act. We soon would meet and befriend the musicians and often get on their guest lists. Because it was a coffee house (no alcohol), as teenagers we could go there any night of the week, and many times we'd go every night when our favorites played. Who were our favorites in 1965-69? Buddy Guy, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, Otis Spann, Paul Butterfield (w/Mike Bloomfield) Band, Junior Wells, Sunnyland Slim, Hubert Sumlin, Freddie King, Earl Hooker, James Cotton, Magic Sam, Otis Rush, The Chambers Brothers, and Luther Georgia Boy Snake Johnson, to name a few. My best buddy at the time was Peter Malick a.k.a. Buddy Shea, a very talented guitar player. He and I made friends with Otis, Hubert & Luther, as well as many others. These friendships lasted for years and years and were truly close friendships where we all cared and loved each other as teachers and students often can, and were crushed when any of them took ill or passed away years later. We used to skip school or leave early and run errands for them during the day. They were all so nice to us and we all shared something very special.

At the same time back in Boston on Berkeley Street there was a new phenomenon developing: 'hippie houses'! We had the Boston Tea Party, while in San Francisco it was The Fillmore. We used to see Jeff Beck & Rod Stewart, B.B. King, Raven (an amazing group that never 'made it'), and many of the famous and not-so-famous bands of the day. Interestingly enough, the shows back then mixed many seemingly disparate musical genres together: Rock, Pop, R&B and Jazz. I remember The Quicksilver Messenger Service and Sun Ra opened for B.B. King once. I saw the Beach Boys on a show with Otis Redding! There's a Facebook page called Remember the Boston Tea Party. I contend that if you do, you didn't do it right.

The first 'real' concert I attended was Little Anthony and the Imperials of Goin' Out of My Head fame at a movie theater in Waltham in 1964. I was 13. Another neighbor and buddy of mine, Paul Snyder, was very influential in getting me interested in music. He played guitar and was pretty good. His parents had season tickets to a theater in the round in Framingham, where acts like Barbra Streisand, Steve & Edie, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra, Joey Bishop, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck and the like mostly performed. One Saturday night Ray Charles was appearing, and as it was considered too rock 'n' roll for them, Mr. & Mrs. Snyder gave the tickets to us boys and my dad schlepped us out there to see the show. I had no idea what I was in for. Ray's orchestra included the incredible Raelets, David 'Fathead' Newman on tenor sax, Billy Preston on organ, LeRoy 'Hawg' Cooper on baritone sax, Hank Crawford on alto and at the very top tier of his renowned genius. Georgia and Hit the Road Jack were Ray's hit records at the time. What'd I Say in person was a holy and sanctified revelation. I was stunned.

It changed my life! I was hooked on those sounds and impassioned feelings of what soon became known as soul music. I began playing piano in earnest the very next day after seeing Ray Charles. I took the radio from the kitchen, tuned it to WILD, our local black station, placed it on our parlor piano and pecked away, one finger at a time, adding fingers & chords as I grew more confident after hearing the songs repeated a few times. I began to notice that many of the British Invasion-type groups covered samples of these R&B songs I was beginning to discover, which led me to search out the original versions as much as I could and found I liked them much better. I figured if it worked for them, it'd work well for me, too.

Two wonderful people who influenced and encouraged me were employed by my parents. We had a 'colored' lady named Cora who lived with us and looked after me and my brother and who also was an amazing cook. For some reason, we'd always mind her and my Auntie Mimi better than anyone else. Neither one ever had to raise their voices. Whenever they lowered it, however, we knew they meant business. Cora would often smile her charming gold-toothed shiny smile while I was trying to 'pick out' tunes from the radio on our parlor piano. That's good, Rown, maybe try to tickle those notes up high sometimes. I would and she'd exclaim, Yeh, that's it! You're gonna be good someday, boy, just you wait and see. I'm gonna leave you be, let you learn some more, but I'll be listening. You listen to what they be playin', too. Cora loved Elmore James. That man's guitar makes me just shiver in delight, but you still need that 'piana' to drive that beat!

The sage-like Willie Douglas was from North Carolina. We worked side by side in the paint shop of American Electroplating Company, my family's business. He loved Jimmy Reed, Bobby Bland, Aretha Franklin and, of course, B.B. King, as well as the new music called Soul. Willie would point out the cool parts and clever lyrics to whatever tunes we were listening to. He wasn't a musician by any means, but he knew what was good and taught me well. While masking and cleaning pieces to prepare them for the spray booth manned by Sy, the Swede, Willie and I had the radio blasting. The two of them made quite the black and white comedy team. We had fun but worked hard and produced our quotas most of the time. Carefree Sy, a Floridian, would say, I don't give a f*ck, but you two will when Ron's Uncle Phil and his daddy come in here seeing you two slacking off. Hurry up, dammit, and no f*ck ups! Willie would tell Sy, Keep breathing in those fumes, big man. You've still got a ways to go before cocktail hour. Another part of the Sy and Willie routine would start with Sy yelling at us, Turn down that damn 'nigger' music and quit yapping. Get to work! Put on some good hillbilly music. Willie would coolly fire back, I would, but that's impossible. Sy would then proceed to mimic one of the black singers, getting all the words wrong and way over-dramatic, not so much in tune, either: I got a sweet little angel, she be knowin' how to spread her thighs. Followed quickly by some Grand Old Opry: Oh my darlin', Oh my darlin', Oh my darlin' what's-her-name. We'd all laugh while trying to meet our endless quotas.

Sy had a tattoo on his large bicep with the name Rose with a corresponding flower to match. I'd say to Sy, I thought your wife's name was Donna. He'd say, It is, rose is my favorite flower. Willie told me about a time he was enjoying the company of a young gal in the back of his '47 Plymouth. His wife at the time was banging on the window, catching him redhanded. His response? Baby, I'd be sorry, but this ain't me!

When we were 14, Paul Snyder invited me to join his first band. We called ourselves The Frantics. I think the only part of anything even remotely frantic was my stage fright anytime we performed -- the few times we did. We practiced a lot and took the whole enterprise as very serious business. We were horrid but still learning and had fun doing so. However, if there are any tapes of our sessions, I pray they've been destroyed long ago. Paul learned the guitar solo note for note -- quite an accomplishment -- to Louie, Louie, a song written by Richard Berry and made famous by The Kingsmen as THE ultimate party song, guaranteed to get any crowd going. We played a dance at a local church social and, when it came time for Paul's guitar solo, he amazed us all by flipping the guitar on his shoulders behind his head backwards and playing the solo! Everyone went nuts! It was soon and suddenly to be Paul's turn to be amazed, however, when a kid sneaked up behind him and randomly adjusted his tuning pegs, thus detuning his guitar during his glory time. He never saw it coming. A dirty trick, no doubt, but still funny as hell. Poor Paul was quite upset and we all empathized with him…but still rolled our eyes and snickered when given the chance later outside of his earshot. I did feel bad for him, though. That's when I first realized this can be a tough business, and there would be many more stories to prove that, in fact.

I turned 15 in May and that summer I practiced constantly and my playing reached a much better level by Labor Day. My friends were all surprised when we returned from our summer vacations. I had some Jimmy Smith, Ray Charles and Memphis Slim albums I tried to play along with and could fake it pretty good. It was then when I met Peter Malick, who was in my homeroom in high school. We fast became friends (and still are) and together began discovering and searching out more and more of this strange new music. Peter was way ahead of the curve on guitar and had very sophisticated eclectic tastes. His father was a Jazz nut and had a real fine audiophile stereo system.

We used to skip school and venture to downtown Boston to the various record stores. It was like we had a sacred mission at hand. Skippy White's on Washington Street was THE place that had all the Blues we could possibly absorb, the real deal stuff. The guys behind the counter knew every record there was. If you knew a few words or hummed a few bars, they'd find your record in seconds. Skippy White was a DJ on WILD so of course they all knew! The other DJs were known as The Early Bird and The Wild Child. Real colorful cats full of jive & hokem whom we loved and found hilarious. I figured I needed a nickname too; mine became Ronson B. Johnson.

Some of our schemes were a little less innocent. Peter and I had a scam of going to Filene's Basement store and buying 'cutouts' for 49 cents to a dollar or so; we'd buy anything, it didn't matter, Montovani even. We'd then go to a more legitimate record store and buy something we really wanted. Then we'd switch the stickers from the legitimate store, put it on the 49 cent record and a few days later we'd return and exchange it for another more costly record, we really wanted at the legitimate store. This is how we built our record collections. I know it was wrong and it was also stealing, but we had an insatiable thirst for tunes and very limited budgets -- at least that was our rationale. My career in crime ended when I attempted to switch stickers in the Harvard Co-op record store and got nabbed as I was leaving the outer doors downstairs. I tried to lie my way out of it by telling the detectives over and over that the record I had was from another store. They placed me in the squad car and started to take me to the station before I 'fessed up halfway down the street. Anyway, they let me go and told me they'd call my parents that night but I should tell them first myself so they wouldn't be as angry. I told my parents at dinner that night, they completely freaked out, and the officers never called. Liars!

We soon formed a Blues band and changed the name of it as many times as we changed keys and tempos. The East Coast Chicago Blues Band was one, The 5 Rats was another. Chris Osborn was our singer/harmonica player. He was a few years older than us and became our leader and ran our rehearsals in Malick's living room. We used to drive Chris crazy. As much as he was very serious, we were still immature kids, laughing and joking the whole time. If we messed up an ending, he'd say Okay, let's do it again. So we'd do it again and make the very same mistake. He'd lose his cool and say What the hell? and we'd say You said to do it again!

Because we were too young to drive, our poor parents took turns shuttling us to gigs. There was a local bar called The Hitching Post in Mission Hill, a rough part of Boston. This was a real rundown rummy loser type place. There was an older guy with no legs, a WWI Vet who had a little wooden platform with roller skate wheels attached to the bottom and a rope looped around, which this older powdered and painted-up tart, dressed like a stripper from a 1930's dance-hall contest, would fling him around, while wildly dancing, shaking and shimmying. They were madly in love, I guess, if you can call it that. I'll never forget the expression on my dad's face when he witnessed this freak-circus of unbridled debauchery. Do you want me to stay, son? No, Dad, I'm ok. Not a word of this to your mother. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

We also played a bunch of college fraternity parties around town. There was so much spilled beer on the floor we almost got electrocuted a few times. I'm reminded that once I was rolling around on this puddle-soaked floor of sticky brews singing Buddy Guy Goes to College, as we called the song back then. Stevie Ray did it as Mary Had A Little Lamb many years later. That same night a cute co-ed offered me an invitation to go outside and smoke a joint with her. We sat on some steps, laughing, smoking and stealing a few kisses and some tender touches. We realized once we were finished and heading back to the party that we were sitting on the back steps of the local police station the whole time.

We won a battle-of-the-bands, beating out the soon-to-be-famous J. Geils Band at another downstairs club called Where It's At. We were shocked. I don't know how we pulled that off but we did, and soon got the notice of a young aspiring promoter, a student from Harvard named Don Law, who later booked The Boston Tea Party. He became the owner of the Paradise Club and promoter of many fine shows in the Beantown area over the years. Don became our manager and booked us at various venues as a backup band to Rock 'n' Roll and Blues legends such as Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, John Lee Hooker, Freddie King and Big Mama Thornton. Peter started backing up Otis Spann and Luther Snake Johnson whenever they came back to Boston as solo acts. We were now in the mix.

Around this same time, one weekend night I ventured down to Roxbury's Louie's Lounge, an infamous black club in the toughest part of town. I was only 16 and way too young to get in, so I hung out in the alley around the back door and heard the most amazing electrifying Blues I'd ever heard. This was really the real thing, Blues in its natural element, not in a Harvard University folk room or in a downtown classy Jazz club, but amongst and for the people this music was created for. The artist was B.B. King. I had a bunch of his records, but hearing him live with his band with his guitar named Lucille, the horns, Hammond organ & killer drums blew me away.

He was singing "Don't Answer the Door and, ironically, as I was standing by the back door, Cato Walker, B.B.'s longtime driver, came out, looked a little surprised and drawled, 'Whuchu doin' out c'here all by yo'seff, boy?" Well, I don't remember what we small-talked about other than getting to know each other, but I soon found myself in B.B.'s dressing room meeting B.B., his longtime drummer Sonny Freeman and Duke Jethro, his fine organist. Everyone couldn't have been nicer or more gracious in a truly genuine way. Sensing my nervousness and youthful awkwardness, they made me feel welcomed and appreciated my daring exploit into their world, with some amusement, I may add. I don't even remember the trip back home that night, sneaking in way past midnight, but I don't think I ever slept a wink, going over in my mind all of what I absorbed that night over and over. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined I'd ever someday travel the world, share the same stage, accompany and play, record records, appear on TV, meet Presidents, famous stars of stage and screen and various dignitaries with this fabulous group of Bluesmen who were the greatest in my book. That was to come later.

Meanwhile, my dedication and constant practicing and record playing were starting to get on my parents' nerves. Once, while rough sandpaper-voiced Howlin' Wolf was blaring from my stereo singing "I'm A Tail Dragger while I was supposed to be doing homework, my dad barged in ranting How can you concentrate with that mishagas (crazy) music so loud! Close that off now! Get to your homework in silence, NOW!" My recently acquired Hammond B-3 organ was downstairs in the sun room off the living room. I had saved up half of the $1500 used purchase price raking leaves, shoveling walks and taking out trash for various neighbors, as well as working part-time in my family's electroplating business my grandfather started in the 1920s. My dad contributed the other half after a promise he'd made in a moment of weakness after much prodding by me and my dear mother. Well, with the house rattling from my reverberating spinning Hammond & Leslie speaker sounds, it became too much for my poor parents to bear and soon my B-3 was moved to the living room of my good buddy Teddy Parkins, also known as 'T'. He was an incredibly talented bass player and drummer. He had very mature insight and appreciation for good music. We used to practice everyday after school, him on the drums, me on the Hammond, attempting to sound like Jimmy Smith and Grady Tate, our heroes.

We were also in a new group formed by bassist Vern Miller of Barry and the Remains fame, our favorite local band who were dynamic showmen and very accomplished musicians. They opened for The Beatles on their East Coast tour and appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. Vern's side project Swallow had a five-piece horn section, full rhythm and a charismatic lead singer named George Leh. He sounded a lot like Joe Cocker and Ray Charles and had a real convincing feel for the Gospel-Blues type singing style. George was blind and used to walk for miles and miles to rehearsals at the Parkins' beautiful home on Amory Street, Brookline, from the YMCA way downtown where he lived. I bought him a red bulb bicycle 'squeezy' horn for his walking cane so he could beep back at cars. He loved it and everyone thought it was hilarious. I also used to taunt and tease him unmercifully. I'd move his water glass wherever he set it down and rearrange the furniture after he'd figure out where everything was. So many people used to pamper and feel sorry for him. I think he appreciated that, although I treated him differently with my Dennis the Menace, sophomoric jocular type humor, I was also there for him whenever he really needed a hand or some eyes. I was the youngest in the band, and somehow they all put up with my shenanigans, probably because I had a real B-3 and was T's good friend.

One incredible and amazing post note: In December of 2009, I did a gig in Weymouth, Mass. with Bob Margolin, a classmate and guitarist with Muddy Waters, and, a few weeks before, one with T Parkins. Both were really fantastic reunions that we all enjoyed immensely. Here, some 40 years later, many of the Brookline characters I grew up playing with or around showed up and jammed. George Leh was one of them. Obviously, I saw George before he saw me. I sneaked up to him and said Beep, Beep! He turned and said Ron Levy, Ron Levy! How are you? Man, it's been a long time! At 58 years old, wearing glasses, with graying hair and beard as well as a good 40 pounds added on, I had to introduce myself by name to a few old 'sighted' compadres and they to me, but not George!

T and Billy 'Wild Bill' Gleason used to listen to all the new and old music down in T's basement, usually high on one thing or another, nothing too heavy. One night they hooked up T's stereo to his Ampeg B-15 amplifier, which I still use today with my various 'clone-wheel' organs, and listened to the newest Jimi Hendrix LP. They, however, also hooked it up to a Vox wah-wah peddle and took turns manipulating it for a really wild and crazy effect. As if Hendrix wasn't far enough out for them. Hey, it was good for some laughs. We, including yours truly, hung out at fellow classmate Andy Cushner's house. His mom was afraid we'd get in trouble drinking and roaming the streets, so she'd buy us a fruity wine cooler type drink called Swizzle. We'd get a buzz on and I'd jam on his family's Hammond A-100 organ and we'd all rock out. We called them Swizzle parties. Whenever we invited girls, we all had to stay upstairs under Mrs. Cushner's close supervision. Besides being a diligent chaperone, she was a great cook who made us eat inordinate amounts of food to completely sober us up before we returned to our homes. She was a lot of fun, a sweet lady with an expansive laugh and always a twinkle in her eye.

Late at night after our own private Swizzle parties (without Mrs. Cushner), going to a show at the Tea Party or Club 47 and/or after gigs, hungry, there were a few stops we had a choice of stopping by before finally heading home. There was a 24 hour outside sandwich shop called Buzzy's Roast Beef way downtown next to the ancient Charles Street jail, a stone building which was built during the war -- the War of 1812. They made all the greasy unhealthy delicious food we craved but could never get at home. They made delicious roast beef sandwiches, burgers, pastrami, cutlets of all sorts, with greasy grilled onions and peppers, melted cheese or anything you wanted, on a flattop toasted and buttered 'bulkie' roll wrapped in wax paper sleeves. To go with them was, naturally, deep fried onion rings and thick cut fries. Once, after discovering his roast beef sandwich was mostly gristle and fat, T, disappointed, exclaimed, I got a scuzzy Buzzy. My Buzzy is a scuzzy! Tweed's Chicken Inn was another spot on Mass. Ave. & Columbus, right on the rigid black/white racial border of Boston. They made the best chicken wings I've ever had. The chefs were all characters and had codes for each order. Six wingy dingys with pot, slaw and a pillow. They got legs baby. Sack it! That meant it was to be bagged up to travel, wingy dingys were fried chicken wings, pot was potato salad, slaw was coleslaw and a pillow was a biscuit. All this for a buck-twenty-five! Hayes-Bickford's was a cafeteria style restaurant on Beacon Street in Coolidge Corner, Brookline, closest to our homes. That was our place for a cheap late night breakfast. With all of its tile and windows reverberating any sound, it was pretty noisy in there, but quiet enough to hear a bomb go off. That was our only 'eat inside' place. All the others, we ate either outside or in the car, winter or summer. Most of time, however, eating food wasn't favored upon in someone's parent's car for fear of 'evidence' caused by stains, grease marks or the next day fetid aromas. Sometimes we'd venture down to Boston's Chinatown. It is said that still, within its gates, it is the most densely populated neighborhood in the world! The place we went to was one of the cheapest and most basic. Even at four in the morning, there was a wait to get a booth. We always ate at the counter. I forgot the name, but it had a yellow sign with red Chinese characters. The menus were in Chinese only, so you had to tell them what you wanted and hope the waiter understood correctly. I always got pretty much the same simple thing; chicken chop suey and 'flied wrice'.

I had been to New York City, Brooklyn, Montreal, Washington, D.C. and Israel as a kid on family trips, but soon a local gig would permanently change that status of family travel only. Out on Route 1, twenty miles or so north of Boston, was a club called Lennie's On the Pike. One of our ever-changing Blues band configurations was booked to open for Albert King and his band. Somehow we fit my B-3 into Mark McGloughlin's VW minibus and off we went to uncharted territory into the far off North Shore. We were nervous as hell and Albert's stern demeanor did little to settle our nerves. We did our opening set of instrumentals and Blues standards to a surprisingly warm reception. We closed out the show and then began to move our stuff off stage when suddenly we heard yelling and furniture smashing from the back room. Albert came storming out and informed us, You boys are playing with me tonight. I'll pay you all $250. Mr. King was a giant of a man, a force not to be trifled with. We were too intimidated to say no out of humility and insecurity, as well as our shock and surprise. He had fired his whole band on the spot. They soon began milling out of the club with their instruments to load up Albert's bandwagon to commence their long bitter trip back home to St. Louis, wishing us well and good luck, very much tongue in cheek.

Ritchie Ponte (a fine drummer) and I had been longtime fans of Albert's records on Stax, especially "Born Under a Bad Sign", and were somewhat familiar with Albert's other material. We met through a fellow organist, Steve Aiello, a real lovable character who loved Robert Johnson, James Brown and all the Stax stuff, too. Well, as it turned out we did pretty damn good, good enough so that Albert soon transformed himself into a very charming and gracious bandleader, being extremely generous with kudos for our group, earning his nickname The Velvet Bulldozer. He was incredible (as always, I may add) and perfectly played all the things I heard everyone else trying to do like him on guitar but never could and never will. He sat us down after the show, calmly, very seriously, and explicitly informed Ritchie and me that he wanted us both to meet him in New York City the next week to go on a weekend trip to Toronto and asked us to join his band as regular touring members! We were in total shock, and my long road trip on the Blues Highway had begun.

CHAPTER 2 - The Albert King Chronicles

Needless to say, both Ritchie and I were thrilled and excited beyond our most far-fetched musical dreams ever, pumped, walking on air. We graciously accepted our new gig and began to make plans toward our newly-realized stardom riding Albert's coattails. I thought everything would be fantastic and no problem, and why not? What could possibly pose any problems? This was all great! Was there anything I hadn't thought through, or at all? Well, there were a few things: first of all, I was only seventeen years old and still in high school (a senior). I hadn't informed my parents of my wonderful plan of finding fame and fortune in this peace-and-love world my generation espoused and believed in so sincerely – one which was so obvious to us but oblivious to anyone over thirty.

My dad, always the pragmatist, somehow understood my irrational passion for this strange new music he knew nothing about. It had a definite hold on me. My dear mom, the romantic, felt that if we didn't somehow figure out a way to work this out, I would somehow be lost for good and run away with the circus forever. We needed to do this with everyone's blessings. So after a talk with Albert and my dad, it was determined that, as long as I kept my grades up, I could go and play out on weekends and Albert was to be my legal guardian, responsible for my safety and welfare out there on the road. Incredibly, Albert agreed. Mr. Segal, my housemaster at Brookline High School, did also! We worked out an arrangement we could all live with. I persuaded my cousin Barry Levy to rent us a Hertz panel truck to be driven by my buddy Mark Berger. We loaded up Richie's drums and my Hammond B-3 and went to meet Albert in New York in ol' Times Square. We did it! We all met OK, although it was nerve wracking trying to negotiate the traffic in NYC and still be on time. Somehow, we already sensed Albert didn't have much patience for anyone being late. As much as I loved Albert through the years, he didn't have much patience at all, for anything or anybody.

I wildly celebrated in my mind and soul as if I had just escaped from some evil foster parent's prison. Much like awakening from a harsh disturbing recurring dream, I could do anything I wanted to now. I was free! Hardly, as it turned out. Albert was at least a 1000 times stricter than my dear old sweet-hearted mom & dad ever were, I soon realized. There was to be none of my foolishness on his watch. NONE! My pop gave me some money for safekeeping and told me anytime I wanted to come home to do so, but save the money for that. Yeah right; I wanted some cool clothes and boots I couldn't afford before. Teary-eyed mom bade me farewell with clean underclothes and socks – enough to last me several months – and some salami sandwiches. We were set to return that next Sunday night after a couple of concerts at the Toronto Expo. Ritchie and I were to take a bus back to Boston from Buffalo and the fellas and Albert were to return to St. Louis, where we'd meet them the following Thursday for our next round of gigs. That was the plan.

Once in Toronto, we set up in this huge pavilion and did a soundcheck (checking the mics, connections and levels, etc.), which was all new to Ritchie and me. We ran over a few tunes with Willie Basso on sax and O'Neal Setzler (some name!) on bass. Both were young black southerners from Alabama and Florida, respectively, and newly joined up with Albert, too. They were both fine musicians. Willie reminded me a lot of King Curtis and O'Neal played some super funky bass and had an infectious maniacal laugh that'd make you laugh even if you didn't know what was so funny. As we were congratulating each other on such a fine rehearsal, an older, somewhat distinguished and proper-looking Canadian gentleman approached the stage and asked us all for our union cards and some money for local dues.

We all looked at each other completely flummoxed. What union? What dues? What's this old man talking about? Within ten minutes we were promptly directed to break down our equipment, get back into the bus and get out of town, and be quick about it. Our very first gig together was cancelled. Albert was fined for bringing non-union musicians to the stage. He didn't get paid, but compensated us fairly as he'd promised. Mr. King was about as cross as I've ever seen him, except for the time when…well, I'll tell you about that later.

It may very well have been my youthful imagination, but while Albert was driving the bus and smoking his pipe, I could've sworn there was steam spouting from each of his ears and swirling smoke from his mouth all at the same time. There was a whirring, snorting type noise coming from his nostrils that reminded me of a Bugs Bunny cartoon bull in a comic bullfight. I don't remember a word passing between any of us until we reached U.S. Customs. It was way worse than any detention I ever suffered at Brookline High or any frigidly silent dinner table back home.

Neither Albert's itinerary nor his star stature was as glamorous as we anticipated, not by a long shot. Frankly, almost no one most places we went to knew who the hell he was. Is he B.B.'s brother? was the standard response. There were rumors they were, but B.B.'s father, also named Albert, assured me many years later, in no uncertain terms, that was not the case. We played an array of very small funky black clubs, more like lounges, a few college concerts and some hippie houses The Fillmore West being the most famous but we also played her 'sister' houses in Cleveland, Detroit and Chicago and wherever. A few Jazz-Blues clubs like the Burning Spear in Chicago were also in the mix. We did a weekend there with Brother Jack McDuff. You talk about a lowdown and soulful bill? It was incredible. They had a stage that elevated some 6-8 feet when the music started. O'Neal (our bassist) left the stage to get some replacement strings for Albert and forgot the stage had been raised, much to his surprise and some unlucky customers below! He wasn't laughing then; neither was Albert. The rest of us were.

There were a bunch of black BYOBs - so-called chitlin' circuit-type dances -- in various locales across the country that I really used to enjoy. The audience was mostly made up of local friends and family who made up the community. Everyone seemed to know each other. They would bring in their own jugs of whiskey, buy setups of ice & soda for their table, bring some home-cooked soul food, and often invite their friends and the musicians to sit down and have a taste. More often than not there was some gambling, mostly craps going on in the back or in a downstairs room. It was a very sociable affair. My first Thanksgiving away from home was at one of these in Kansas City. The promoter got funny with Albert's upfront deposit money and, after a few curt words, Albert proceeded to produce an Elliot Ness-style Thompson submachine gun, with the round magazine attached, from a secret storage compartment in the back of the bus. Very soon things were back in proper 'Albert order'. Apparently, Mr. King was a deputy sheriff in Lovejoy, IL and had a permit to carry it. However, it came as a complete shock to us and was quite unsettling at the time. I, for one, had only seen those guns used in movies with fake bullets and tepid actors pretending to be angry.

We used to play at a black club in East St. Louis called the Blue Moon (we only went there once in a…sorry) that stayed open all night. Many stars passed through there and sometimes jammed, such as Ike Turner, Chuck Berry, Little Milton, Johnnie Johnson, Oliver Sain and many other locals, as well as artists on tour. Redd Foxx used to stop by and hang out. They had a great house band complete with Foxy Brown Go-Go dancers. I was in love with one, but I never experienced any of her exotic charms in real life, despite my most sincere, albeit awkward, attempts.

Undoubtedly the most prestigious concert we ever played in St. Louis was when we performed with the St. Louis Symphony. It wasn't serious long-haired music, however. We played the Blues. Albert looked like a giant overstuffed penguin in his crisply tailored tuxedo. The humidity was intense that night and, for some reason, Albert's processed straightened hair kind of raised up at a sporty angle, giving it a Woody Woodpecker effect. All in all, quite a visual -- along with Lucy, his rocket-shaped Gibson guitar -- in front of a 60-piece symphonic orchestra and packed house. Albert was incredible, if not maybe a little more toned down than usual, but great just the same. History was made on that soggy formal evening. A proud black sharecropper's son from the Deep South and self-taught genius of the guitar received his well-deserved recognition from the most established of St. Louis' genteel conservative all-white society, which only a few years before (1969) wouldn't have let Albert into the hall at all, unless he was doing janitorial work. There was definitely a little something extra in his singing voice that night.

In between gigs, when we stayed in St. Louis, Mr. King would go home to his family in Lovejoy, across the river. Albert would drop us off in the Delmar Street ghetto area. We stayed at a hotel/rooming house that seemed to cater to mostly older black disabled war vets and bodacious big booty streetwalkers (some retired), who rented by the hour, some by the week, as did we. Willie, O'Neal and I stayed in an adjoining-type suite that had turned sour years ago. We shared one decrepit rusty bathtub, sink & toilet between us. We each had our own room but little privacy because the doors in between either didn't close or didn't exist. We each had our own radio set attached to the wall that also happened to cost a quarter for an hour of static play. We could never get a clear signal even from the local stations, it seemed. We took turns playing it in each of our rooms anyway and made the best of it. Downstairs, the old black and white TV in the lobby demanded the same monetary attention but was only good for half an hour. We often left some change for the old gentlemen while they were sitting around, usually retelling war stories, watching their daily soaps, game shows and Cardinals baseball. There were some great stories shared among them and, as much they appreciated my coins, they never fully opened up to me as they did with Willie and O'Neal, I'm sad to say. I must confess, I mostly spoke just enough to be polite while wanting to quickly escape, get the hell out of there ASAP and go off to the promising adventures of my newly found freedom with no parental or Albert curfew. I knew an old friend and a friend of T's named Joel Kanter from Brookline High. He was attending St. Louis' Washington University and that's where the girls and parties were, as well as a decent working shower and free radio. That's where I wanted to be.

Down the street from the hotel was a great and cheap buffet place that served all the Southern delicacies I grew to love back home, growing up when Cora lived with us. Man, that woman could cook! She loved my brother Georgie and me dearly, and we loved her. Anyway, the food there wasn't good as Cora's, but for the cheap price and generous amounts, it was good enough to give us all a good fulfilling healthy meal each day. I think the lady cooks there knew we were aspiring musicians playing with Albert, so they took extra good care of us young boys with a sincere fondness.

Remember the union flap back up in Canada? Well, after avoiding having to pay extra money to some union jerk to play music for a few months, Albert finally paraded Willie, O'Neal and me down to St. Louis' Local #187 Musicians Union. Famous Jazz drummer Ed Thigpen's brother was the union official there. As we began to fill out and sign the forms, I could sense a certain discomfort with Mr. Thigpen, an unspoken tension of sorts. Local #187 in St. Louis had been a 'colored' union since its inception. Now, even though the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was five years old, the long established and customary segregationist traditions of St. Louis still lagged far behind, as did this union's policy. It just had never been done before…a white man in the 'colored', excuse me, now 'black' union? I had crossed the color barrier in reverse!

By this time, Ritchie had been fired and couldn't believe I was going to stay in the band without him and not go back home. I told him You got fired, Ritch, not me. I'll be ok. Send my best to Malick, Steve Aiello and the guys back home. That may have been the last time I ever saw him, sad to say. I heard he passed away not too long after, maybe a year or so. As well, several other drummers had since been hired and fired. There probably wasn't a drummer in St. Louis who hadn't worked for Albert for at least 10 minutes.

I have to make a fact clear here. Albert was a naturally gifted musical genius. Besides inventing a truly unique, gut-wrenching emotional guitar style, his sense of pitch and time was absolutely 100% perfect. He was a wonderful singer, one of the very best. You can always tell it's Albert from the very first note he squeezes or the first words he sings. He was unique. I heard that Albert was a drummer years ago and recorded with Jimmy Reed, and the dynamic cymbal crash after the harmonica break on Honest I Do was him. Now, I don't know if that's true or not. I never asked him. But that's what he would've done if it was him. A totally effective and dramatic effect was Albert's signature no matter what he was doing.

He also knew exactly what he wanted to hear behind him, on all levels. Because he was unschooled and insecure regarding his illiteracy (due to being dyslexic, I found out some 20 years later), he had difficulty expressing and explaining what he wanted in formally trained musical terms. Because he knew, he expected you to know, too. He was sometimes coarse and impatient waiting for you to get it, no doubt. One time Brother Jack McDuff taught me some cool modern jazz chords, 13ths, flat 5s, some passing tones and the like. I was so excited, I couldn't wait to use them and show off my new knowledge. We had a little mini-rehearsal breaking in another new drummer (which was pretty routine by now) and I played some of these chords on a slow Blues. Albert suddenly stopped and went berserk. Whut in the hell is wrong wichu? I don't want no mutherfu*kin kinda funky jazzy ass sh*t chords on my tunes! THIS IS THE BLUES, DAMMIT! What in the fu*k is that sh*t? Damn, boy. Ain't you loined nuttin' from me yet? This is how you play a damn Blues chord. He then proceeded to come over to my B-3 and play an Ab 7th chord with the b7th right below the tonic on top, with the 3rd on the bottom. He even changed the Hammond drawbar tone settings! If you cain't play them chords behind me like this'n, I'm gonna tear up that paper your daddy made me sign and send you back to yo' mama! I somehow instinctively knew better not to crack wise to my giant authoritative guardian as I had done so many times back home with my dear loving parents.

Not long afterward, the band was practicing a break tune ourselves, without Albert. He was at the bar charming a cute waitress and I played that 13th chord on 'our' tune. He jumped up from the bar stool, rushed over and yelled at me, saying, What in the fu*k I jus' toled you about that damn chord? I never wanna heyar that sh*t, evah again, you understand me, son? Can you dig it? Damn! Are you dumb or are you just plain stupid? He never hoid that 13th chord from me or anything remotely like it again, not even a 9th. Now, I also have to say, when I played his chords right, he'd nod happily, giving me the biggest smile of approval and say over the mic, That's MY son, haw, haw, haw.

He was, however, an even more merciless tyrannical dictator when it came to drummers, not so patient, like with me. He'd scowl, frown, waving his hands to speed up or slow down, get louder or softer on stage. He'd also stoop down, bending his knees, when he wanted us to relax a bit. He'd regularly cuss out the drummer on mic saying, I don't know where I got me this heyah Sears and Roebucks drummer back dere, but I'm gonna be sending him back home as soon as we finish this show! Once, out in the middle of nowhere and in the early dawn, somewhere out in Nebraska, along a lonely deserted highway, the bus swerved off the road suddenly to a jerked stop. Back in the back, Willie, O'Neal and I were startled from the jolt and abruptly awoke to hear Albert going off on this defenseless drummer, now victim of Albert's unbridled wrath. I guess they had been discussing the previous night's show. The drummer was almost in tears but had somehow summoned enough courage to tell Albert to have sex with himself, in so many words. We heard that. Albert commanded him to get off the bus, threw some money at him and almost literally kicked him in a place normally reserved for sitting out the front steps with his size 16 shoes. He then rolled his drums way out onto G-d's 'Big Sky' country and took off without any remorse, mumbling to himself and puffing his pipe in double time. Still in the back of the bus and seeing only the whites of our eyes, we silently looked at each other and feigned asleep, trying not to laugh.

Mr. King even fired a drummer for being too funky! This poor soul was funky in the old country vernacular. He stunk! Literally. I mean really stank, it was brutal. The three of us band boys couldn't take it and were quietly whispering jokes amongst ourselves about this cat and moseyed off to the rear of the bus and opened the windows, even though it was winter, because we didn't want Albert to think it was any of us. We left this guy alone with Albert up front. Within 10-20 minutes, I assume this drummer must've removed his shoes, and Oh G-d, it didn't take Albert but a few seconds to holler out, Whut in the fu*k is that funky smell? Damn it smells like cow and pig sh*t in heyah! G-d damn. Sh*t! Izzat you? Mutha fu*kah! Damn boy, did you sh*t on yourself? Are you sick? Gawwwd damn!!!!!! We were cracking up in the back, snorting and choking, trying to subdue our laughter under Albert's acute radar.

Then we heard this deep loud voice. Rown, Rown Levy, Willie Basso, Oh'Neal, get yo' laughin' asses up chere and send this stinkin' ass muthah fu*ker back there and open the G-d damned windows and let this sh*tty ass funky smell outta my damn bus. Damn boy, you stink! You smell like yo' dead! Get the hell back there and away from me. NOW! G-d damit!

As soon as we all traded places, Albert's voice got all sympathetic and soft-like. Man, I jus' cain't drive with that kinda stinky funk all around and on me and sh*t. Whew, I glad he's gone, but it still smells bad up in chere. That boy left a stink print of his ass on my seats! It'll nevah go away, I don't believe. I'm gonna have to get this whole damn bus detoxificated when we get back to St. Louis. O'Neal must've laughed that crazy laugh of his for a good 20-30 miles further, and we all joined in, even Albert. We were all crying we laughed so hard whooping it up and talking plenty of sh*t. We felt bad for that poor bastard back there, but we couldn't control ourselves. He must've been mortified. After awhile, O'Neal went to the back and gave the guy some cologne and tried to console his hurt feelings, but soon retreated back to the front. He couldn't take it for too long. When he returned he said, Damn, that boy sho' do smells bad and we started up all over again, cackling and snorting out our piercing laughter.

When we got back home to our hotel, Albert ordered us all to take 'baffs' and wash good. Then said, while pounding his fist in his other open hand for emphasis, I ain't lettin' anymo' stinky smelly MF's on this bus anymore and everybody wash their clothes, too. I'm talkin' about your drawers, your socks, everything dammit. Can you dig it? I ain't playin'. EVERYBODY WASH YO' ASS! We never saw nor heard from that poor funky drummer again. We all, however, smelled like a combination of French whores and lilies of the valley fresh -- kind of like the St. Louis pimps did -- the next time we all met.

Many times, the various famous rock guitar gods of the time like Hendrix, Clapton, Jimmy Page, Santana, Mike Bloomfield and many others, sought out Albert whenever and wherever they could. Somehow they found the courage to sit in. He played with them like a cat fiddles with a dead mouse. It was pitiful. Their guitars sounded like distorted off-key skinny banjos made of plastic (but loud) compared to Albert's fat full clear commanding 'natural' tone, which I often likened to pure glass crystal. Albert's guitar sounded exactly the same on the bus when he wasn't plugged into an amp. It just wasn't as loud, but everything else was just like it was onstage, incredibly. His sound was from his fingers and soul, not his amplifier. Believe it or not, Willie, O'Neal and I always hated these jams. Even though we knew these guys were stars and were trying to boost Albert's career since they were better known, it was just one loud fuzzy whiny guitar wank-job after another and seemed like it lasted forever and a long set and a half. We would just roll our eyes, thinking, This is so boring and messing up a good show. How long is it gonna go on for? Albert did, however, sincerely dig Stevie Ray, Jimmie and Robert Cray. He liked the other cats, but loved them.

One of my all-time favorite tours was my first trip to London, England. First of all, our tour bus, which took us to and from practically every town in the UK, was far more luxurious than any bus we'd ever seen before. It was gorgeous, very roomy and super comfortable. Added on to that was the group of artists on the tour. The hilarious, wild and wily Champion Jack Dupree held court almost every kilometer of the trip, quoting his versions of Shakespeare -- such as Shakespeare says, he who makes love on the park ground has piece on oith and Shakespeare says, he who drinks plenty of whiskey will start to feelin' pretty frisky -- all the while grinnin', rolling his eyes and flipping his eyebrows. He went on like this for days and all through the night, never running out of material. Jack would also