Now it can be told: the moving, shocking, down 'n dirty story of how two itinerant bluesmen--Jake and Elwood Blues--rose from abject obscurity to an appearance on NBC-TV's Saturday Night Live! After years of underground acclaim, these "overnight sensations" are now known to millions as the Kings of the Honkin' Blues, Chicago Style. They are prophets, social scientists, giants among men. Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a 12-bar boogie! No, it's a briefcase full o' blues!
Jake had a vision. It was his, the only real one he'd ever had, and he clung to it. There had been too many messy gas station holdups with only some green stamps and a case of Valvoline to show for the risk. Joliet Jake had always been full of schemes. But this was different; it played across his white-tiled cell wall 24 hours a day. And the ending was always the same--Jake and his younger brother Elwood cruising out of Calumet City, Ill., with the sun in their shades and a full tank of gas. He absentmindedly rubbed his Buddha belly; even on a diet of Slim Jims and Chesterfields, Jake had gained weight. Someday he'd fly to one of those Teamster spas...float around with bourbons and blonds. It was there for the taking and Jake could smell it like ozone in damp air.
It had always been the blues. Even back in the Rock City orphanage (that sweaty kid factory with the black windows), Jake and Elwood were saved by the music. Actually, by a gray-haired janitor everybody called Curtis. He wore these sinister black shades, a narrow black tie and a porkpie hat that he kept pushed back on his head. Curtis wrapped his waxy brown hands around his guitar neck and played the most dangerous blues this side of Robert Johnson. The nuns scorched their days with holy threats and Curtis rescued them by night. Down in the coolness of his basement he taught the brothers the blues.
Silent Elwood never did put more than two sentences together, but all those lost words burned from his Marine Band harp. And Joliet tore that voice from some hidden darkness, twisting his chubby body, snarling at the heavens, a born sinner. They used the basement because it was secret and because the echo gave them a nice dirty sound: Howlin' Wolf and Little Walter, slapping like a bad dream around the chilly room. And then one night, Jake brought in a gleaming E string he said came from Elmore James' guitar. He held it tight and as it glowed in the bulb light, Jake sliced Elwood's middle finger and then his own. Now the solo boys with soul in their blood were brothers. Jake and Elwood Blues...the Blues Brothers.
When Jake could keep himself outside, Elwood took off from the Taser factory and the brothers rode the state bare. They played everywhere: after-hours clubs, black-light bars. Word spread quietly across the steel belt about the two men in the porkpie hats who still played the blues. And soon other musicians crawled out of the night. The Colonel showed up in Decatur with his Strat and Duck. The Shiv, Mr. Fabulous, Blue Lou and crazy Get Dwa strutted in one Saturday night. Finally, Guitar Murphy, bigger than life, joined up and they were set. One scary soul band as mean and righteous as a fist.
Now Jake and Elwood had the boys behind them--literally--cutting the deck in the airstream trailer hitched to the Blues Mobile. And they roared into each town like evangelists, whipping themselves into a funk fury till the midwestern skies testified. They had the power of true believers--until the cops pulled the plug one rainy morning outside Gary, Ind. The Highway Patrol busted Jake for drunk driving, a solid parole violation. He was expressed back to Joliet and the band, the shien dulled in their eyes, drifted back to their day jobs. Elwood landed a gig near the prison soldering transistor chips. At night the halls of the Bond Hotel sighed to his mournful harp until even the hookers, in a fit of depression, left the lobby.
The state took another five years from the big man, but it gave him his dream. And clutched in Jake's bear hug, the Blues Brothers All-Soul Crusade nourished and grew. Forget Chicago; the Blues were gonna liberate the whole state, were gonna heat things up until the whole country boiled over. Jake could taste it.
"The glasses are crucial, man. The band has got to have the right look or the whole thing won't work. It's essential that we get Ray-Bans model number 5022-G15."
Dan Aykroyd is insistent, waving a pair of stubby black shades in the air. John Beluhsi sinks a little deeper into the Jacuzzi, closing his eyes in the heat. The tub's foam lines his jaw, clinging to the soul patch he's grown under his bottom lip. The face is well into yet another convincing incarnation--Jake Blues. Elwood/Aykroyd reties the towel around his waste. "We've just got to get this shit together, that's all." Belushi nods. It's just a little too late to cope with the detail avalanche. Tomorrow night at 8:30, the Blues Brothers play before 5,000 jaded Angelenos and sushied celebs at the Universal Amphitheater. It will be their first show before an audience.
Danny wanders back into their rented L.A. house to change, leaving Belushi cooking in the hot tub. "There's nothing to do anymore," John says. "The band's as tight as it can get and all this other bullshit is gonna have to come together without me." He leans back on the redwood patio. High above, a hawk rides the thermals over Mandeville Canyon.
"It's really strange," Belushi continues. "I used to play drums in bands in Wheaton. Stones-Beatles stuff. It was the most fun I've ever had, playing parties and garages. Then this concert happens and it's like living out your fantasy. I never even listened to the blues. Shit, I listened to more Sabbath and Led Zeppelin in one week..." HIs eyebrows curve in emphasis. "Even though I grew up in Chicago and I guess it was all around me, I didn't really hear it. Not until I was in Eugene [Ore.] last year shooting Animal House." He reaches over and grabs a pack of Vantage Blues.
"There were a lot of rainy nights with nothing to do and this guy I met there, Curtis Salgado, began playing me all this music. It was fucking unbelievable. I was starving for it and Curtis kept asking me if I was really interested. Interested. I couldn't stop playing the stuff! Magic Sam, Lightnin' Hopkins, Junior Wells--I walked around playing that shit all the time. I bought hundreds of records and singles. And then I knew Danny had played the harp in Canada, and I always could sing, so we created the Blues Brothers." Sweat hangs like curtains on his eyebrows.
"The music we play--Stax, and Chicago blues--all of it is music we like to listen to. I just can't handle all the pre-programmed, processed fuckin' disco. There's no feeling in that shit. Our music isn't perfect but it's emotional." He slaps the water, splashing it over the deck. "We have to play this or we can't hear it.! And it really should be heard. There just aren't that many places you can go and see the blues any more."
Belushi's wife, Judy Jacklin, walks out with a blended drink she claims cures John of everything. He dutifully chugs it, spilling a little of it in the tub. "Come on and try your suit," she says over her shoulder. "We can't figure out which one is which." Belushi groans slightly and hoists himself out. He watches the clouds of steam rising from his body. "I gave up cigarettes for my New Year's resolution," he sings, "but I didn't give up...smokin'."
Dan Aykroyd stares at the computer news readout on the cable TV. He wears only a pair of black pants that crease at the feet. Judy and Blues Brother coordinator Laila Nabulsi sort through a stack of black jackets and white shirts. "It doesn't matter which jacket you find," Aykroyd says, still watching the screen, "they're all the same size. John and I may have radically different shapes but the suits must be identical. Laila, where's the handcuffs and the briefcase?" He is handed the functional black bag (with "BLUES" embossed on it) and a pair of keyless theatrical handcuffs. As if he's done it his whole life, or as if he's wanted to, Danny slaps one end around the case's handles and the other around his wrist. "Excellent," he hisses. "Excellent".
The suits are finally sorted out and Aykroyd walks over to the kitchen counter. He grabs a fistful of Doritos and a Dos Equis beer, bobbing unconsciously from one foot to another. "We're living like outlaws here," he laughs. "We haven't eaten one meal sitting down in three days. We just throw it down in shifts. Can't take the time. Judy buys four bags of groceries in the morning and they're consumed by nightfall. It's like we're hold up here until the heat blows over." He swallows a serious amount of corn chips. "I haven't changed my socks or underwear in four days. I'm not going to until the whole show is over." He chugs from his beer. "This is the blues, man."
It's not even a C&W trailer--it's more like a trophy on wheels: fake walnut paneling, a beaten rug, a TV that always blends two stations at once, and a lit plastic bar. The white wine is warm and tastes like Juicy Fruit, and the Blues Brothers hit the stage in an hour. "I want a chili dog," Belushi bellows out the open door. "I need shit food." A chili dog with everything!" An amphitheater aid suggests the fresh fruit and raw vegetables in headliner Steve Martin's dressing room. Belushi's face cramps darkly. "You don't understand, I need a chili dog. Carrots won't put me in the right mood." The aid nods, backing out of the trailer. John follows him to survey the backstage area and walk off some adrenalin.
Aykroyd sits quietly at the walnut formica table, preparing himself. He is very precise about these things. Like a gunfighter spinning his barrell, he tests his handcuffs and resets the cheap digital watch. Opening the briefcase, he arranges his various harps and pulls out a battered microphone. "Jagger used this on 'Honky Tonk Women,'" he announces proudly. Danny is ageless. When he clicks into his dictaphone raps--spewing lists, punctuating them with abrupt arm movements--it is almost impossible to believe he's 26 years old. The stance and delivery are just too rigid, too adult. The other side, the ragged adolescent, emerges around heavy machinery, muscle cars, fat American motorcycles and soul music.
"I'd love to drive one of these rigs back to New York," he says, pointing at the padded dashboard. "Man, just crank it up Route 80." His eyes flicker at the thought. "I just read a book on hydraulics," he adds, taking the driver's seat. "There's printed material on everything, people just have to look for the knowledge. It's documented. Especially today. Jesus, turn on the TV, facts, figures or statistics you never knew before. Just have to take the time, be interested. I don't know, I guess I'm just interested in hydraulics or equipment repair or the fuel range of the P40." Aykroyd stands up and does a dance step to the couch. "I'm also interested in Arthur Conley's 'Sweet Soul Music.""
The trailer door swings open and in walks Steve Cropper, looking as slick and hungry as a Vegas dealer. The hair has grown to his shoulders form its Booker T and the MGs pompadour, and the face is hidden by a beard. A paisley vest, white shirt and black pants further distance him from the soul guitarist in the blazer who helped create the best '60s dance music.
"Ohh, man. That's beautiful," Danny beams. Cropper reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a pair of those reptilian Ray-Bans. Steve Cropper has become The Colonel.
The Colonel leaves his guitars in the trailer and walks back to the band's dressing room. Danny continues his transformation. In the baggy suit and tie, with his hat pulled over his shades, the posture changes, becomes a little dumber. Adjusting his tie in the mirror, he says, "really feel like a different person when I get into this costume. I can't be myself. I mean, it's hard to even talk to people. Because, you know, Elwood's this morose, practically silent character."
In defining Jake and Elwood, Aykroyd flirts with self-description. The Blues Brothers evolved from the personalities of the two actors and at times they merge fairly closely, "Elwood's pretty nervous...always. In fact, I'm plumb scared out there. I don't relate to the world through an entertainer's space. Some of them go out and bask--" Dan gushes into the mirror--" Ahhh, I love you people.' But I'm not fuckin' Eartha Kitt. I see those people screamin' and I'm freaked. I feel like a microbe out there. I'm damn glad to be wearing the hat and shades." He pulls the porkpie over his brow.
"The whole thing was built on a strong-founded concept. The fact that this is a mask," pointing to his outfit, "this comes from our theatrical background and, believe me, it really helps. The characters really work, too. Elwood's a stiff, basically. He walks around like he's got a poker shoved up his ass. Jake, on the other hand, tries to pull it out of them." Danny clicks the handcuff on his wrist for good and grabs the briefcase. Anticipation charges his voice. "The only thing that loosens Elwood up is the music."
Cool night winds (like those summer breezes off Lake Michigan) loope the amphitheater. This is Steve Martin's show in name but the little celebrity bite, the buzz of curiosity, is for the Brothers. No one really knows what to expect. Sure, Belushi did this music bit on Saturday Night Live!, but that was before 10,000 kids in Wisconsin had dressed up in Animal House togas and chanted his name. He'll have to do Bluto tonight. Maybe it's a joke, some wacky Samurai disco show, and besides was that really Aykroyd playing the harmonica?
The lights dim and the balloon-and-bent-arrow crowd yells after the darkness. The band strolls out and within seconds "Paul "Shiv" Shaeffer counts them into the frenzied Stax sound of "Can't Turn You Loose." The horns (Tom Scott, Al "Mr. Fabulous" Rubin and Lou "Blue Lou" Marini) rise to the heat. Steve "Get Dwa" Jordan practically levitates behind the drums and Matt "Guitar" Murphy smiles till his neck cords show. Over on the left, Cropper and his partner since soul music was invented, bassman Donald "Duck" Dunn, ride the rhythm--side by side just like shows with Otis Redding a decade ago. The crowd begins to understand; even Beverly Hills (in the first 20 rows) senses it: This is no joke. Then the spots his the two men who look like they stepped off an old discount bin album jacket. The whole package works. Ladies and gentlemen, tonight the crusade has hit Hollywood.
Backstage, Henry Winkler and his wife wear their Blues Brothers buttons. Mick gives his to Jerry Hall. Walter Matthau wants one for his kid. Aykroyd's Ray-Bans are stolen.
John Landis hasn't touched ground in months. Every day is the first day of summer, every joke has a punchline, every sneaker is a Converse high-top; John Landis is the director of a smash--Animal House. He bounces through the Universal lot like the son of Flubber, talking about three or four things at once, doubled over at the way the world has worked out. Belushi and his director have made their point: They can stroll through this studio and laugh at the Sgt. Pepper poster.
But this week is turning into more than a celebration for Belushi. This week is the next test. He is learning that late-night TV cultdom is a calm retreat compared to the major-star furnace. Since the Blues Brothers settled into the amphitheater for their nine-night engagement, a line of directors from Ken Russell to Steven Spielberg has mixed congratulations with backstage business. Every studio in Hollywood has called John's manager, Bernie Brillstein, and Belushi's looking a little worn from the attention.
Today, Landis has invited John and the Blues Brothers entourage to a screening of Throne of Blood, Kurosawa's classic samurai Macbeth. It's a necessary diversion for Belushi. Yesterday, negotiations with Spielberg for a part in his next film, 1941, has stumbled. Belushi, Landis and Universal exec Sean Daniels settled into the back row of the plush screening room. Occasionally, Belushi answers a Toshiro Mifune grunt with one of his own, but the spirit is subdued. The red phone light blinks and it's for Belushi. There is a brief, muffled conversation. About 15 minutes and several mangled Japanese later, the light blinks again. Again it's for Belushi.
The film ends with Mifune a human pincushion, and belushi heads for a chili dog at the taco stand outside the Universal lot. It is a smog-brown late afternoon. John has a strange contained smile on his face, as if he's eaten a laugh track. Finally he stops at an overpass that bridges a rusty trickle of water. "I got the Spielberg movie," he says finally. I think this means I'm set. I mean, I don't ever have to worry about money again." For that instant, the barrelling career has reached its goal. He leans over the concret wall, watching the damp excuse for a stream. There is too much to absorb now. "It's an old tradition to throw a penny in there for luck," I tell him. Belushi reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled $20 bill. His eyebrow arches and a close-mouthed smile curves across his face. Cars shoot by on the freeway, exhaust whipping our jackets. "Thank you, L.A.," he says quietly, thick fingers making slow confetti. Tiny bits of green fan out over the ditch. "Thank you, Hollywood."
Danny rolls joints on his borrowed waterbed. The house the Blues Brothers have rented belongs to a family, and while John and Judy have the master bedroom it was only natural that Aykroyd take the son's. Behind Danny is a shiny silver Bowie poster. There is also a bookcase filled with high-school required reading (Animal Farm, A Tale of Two Cities). "I dig this room, it's like a shrine to the modern American teenager. They should seal the fucker up and bury it at the next World's Fair." Danny floats cross-legged, calmly finishing the job at hand.
"I never really had this kind of thing. I was a disciplinary problem in school. You know, sort of ostracized. I never really had many friends as a kid but I eventually ran with one crowd and I still see most of them. I really sustain relationships."
Aykroyd looks up as if to see how he is being received. This kind of public self-analysis obviously makes him uncomfortable. It's almost a willing violation, a possible embarrassment.
"I got out of the house early; really resented the confinement. I just knew there was adventure out there, thrills." He leans back against Bowie. "I used to hitchhike from Ottawa to Montreal to the Esquire show bar. Man, it was a real Wilson Pickett show bar. You could get your teeth kicked if you were drunk adn leaned into his dancing. Jesus, you could see his socks!" He put the joints on the waterbed frame, a little more comfortable with the autobiograpy.
"For three years I was shut away in a seminary, in these cells. At the time I hated it but now I see it gave me an austere outlook. Because of that I try to keep life simple, pare down my possessions. At the time I rebelled by trying all the...uh...substances, and drinking. Christ, I was arrested in Messina, N.Y., for drunkenness when I was 14. My father had to come and bail me out."
Belushi and Aykroyd sit for the last time as Blues Brothers in Los Angeles. Fatigue and frenzy are now one. These boys are on a roll. The trailer has taken on a last-night edge; all the shows have been taped for their album, so tonight is just for them. Spielberg has just given the role of Sgt. Tree, the tank commander in 1941 to Danny and he races around, spinning at the possibilities. "Man, we're in it together. You've got the P40 and I've got the fuckin' M3 tank! Man, between us we're the heaviest ordinances in the movie!" He tosses the script to John who just smiles wide. Aykroyd paces and raps. "I've always known I'd do a film, my first big one, and it would be something that felt morally and karmically right." He claps his hands together. "Jesus, driving a M3 over a bunch of cars just feels real good."
Belushi laughs, "I know, I know," recharging off Dan's excitement. But this week has taken its toll. The whole project, beginning with a new-found passion for the blues and growing to nine sold-out dates and a live album on Atlantic Records, has been his responsibility. His instincts about the band--a joyous, inspired blend of soul and blues musicians--about the public's willingness to listen, have been dead-on. And now his creations, the bearish Joliet Jake and his almost silent brother Elwood, have been signed to star in a Blues Brothers film to be written for Universal by Aykroyd.
Big Jake parts the crowd as he heads for the footlights. Lights bead up on his glasses so its impossible to read the eyes. The sneer that seems as fixed to his face as his soul patch begins to turn upwards at the corners...as close as the man comes to a smile. Someone runs over and asks for an autograph and the eyebrow leaps above the black frames. He grabs the scrap of paper and scrawls:
I strongly suggest you buy a blues album.----Jake