Blues Pilgrimage The Story, Part 3

The sky was darkening as Joe Louis Walker’s band tuned their instruments. The irony of travelling across the country to see a Bay area player did not escape me.

Joe Louis Walker started playing in San Francisco in the sixties, rooming with Mike Bloomfield, and sharing bills with the likes of John Lee Hooker and Freddie King. He turned to gospel in the mid-seventies, but came back to the blues ten years later. His house is undoubtedly cramped, what with all the W.C. Handy awards he has won; and he is one of a very select few to have had B.B. King give him a "Lucille". (For more on Lucille, see the story on King in this issue.)

Walker has collaborated with Steve Cropper (Booker T and the MG’s, Blues Brothers) for three albums now, the latest being Preacher and the President.

Sun Records, Memphis

During the break, two overly dressed young ladies walked up to the mike. One was in red, Miss Arkansas or something? No, it was a pitch for the casino, and its free regular shuttle. To be fair, dollars provided by the Lady Luck make a hot lineup possible in a free show. Walker’s band continued tuning up, loudly, giving them the disrespect they so truly deserved.

It was almost dark when Walker hit the stage, looking smooth, that grin that’s got enough wickedness to keep you on edge flashing from beneath his hat. This was an individual on top of his game, pealing off incredible runs on his guitar while looking like he could talk you into jumping in the river without breaking stride. The title track from Blues of the Month Club reached the heights that are what keeps many of us seeking live music.

It was so hard, not childbirth hard, but really difficult to pry myself away to see Tab Benoit and the Louisiana Legends back at the Heritage stage. I still feel incomplete for not witnessing the whole of Walker’s set.

Benoit showcased his singing and playing with more of a bayou feeling than had been heard thus far. He was then joined by various pioneers of Louisiana blues including Tabby Thomas, pianist Henry Gray whose Brown suit was actually in style at some juncture of history, and harpist/singer Raful Neal.

Benoit was the most well known player to grace the Heritage Stage, and the crowd, which reached its peak in number while he played, began to dissipate into the street or darkness of the levee after his set. It was first assumed that a spotlight armed helicopter circling overhead was looking or a specific ne’er do well, but became likely that it was just looking in general. Presumably to instill a feeling of security in concertgoers, I felt the opposite was true. Can’t imagine that anybody’s going to look for criminals without speculating that there’s a reasonable chance of finding some.

A crossroads had been reached in my musical buffet. I felt satiated; continuing on could be said to be gluttony. On the other hand, it was not difficult to imagine proceeding at a pace that would cause a body to explode like the guy in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life.

Things were fairly low key at the Heritage Stage, save the odd reveler doing his part to support local beer merchants. Even they were amusing in a way, not too many at that insufferably irritating stage of drunkenness. And the ingenuity of putting ice in a plastic bag in order to circumnavigate the cooler restriction certainly had to be admired. John Weston, now on stage, took it in stride as one hollered out multiple "Grandpa" references. Then again, Weston seems the sort of guy that would take anything in stride with a wink and a smile. I stayed.

"I write songs about women, because I used to be a man," Weston proclaimed. The message was clear; the women have won; go with it. No sense in whining about it, let’s just try to have a good time.

Some misguided souls think that the music called blues is about feeling bad. It isn’t. The point is to use music as a healer, and make yourself feel better. The same is true for topics other than romance, as Weston demonstrated by singing:

"They say the rich ain’t happy, I don’t think that’s true.

If it is I’m gonna make myself a million,

So I can be happy being unhappy, too."

Music for music’s sake, what a concept. John Weston’s set truly was a living example of the spirit of inclusiveness created at the Biscuit. His band included guitarist Mark Simpson, young, white, and electric, while Troy Broussard, his white hair contrasting his dark face, handled acoustic duties. Young Donna Johnson, who came out for a few vocal turns, could have been Broussard’s granddaughter.

As the band played, I noticed the stage manager, a man who had traveled from Alaska, playing his harp in the wings. Now, I don’t know if this had been prearranged, but it wasn’t long before he was on stage with a mike, playing along.

The Heritage Stage being finished, I walked down Cherry Street with a few frames of film remaining. The day had been good, one of the best, and, now, was it finally over?

Seeing the guys from the plane out of San Jose was revitalizing, and Kim Wilson’s Blues Review was closing out the Main Stage. It seemed downright rude not to go give a listen.

This wasn’t music; it was sorcery. There just had to be another harmonica player hidden somewhere. Wilson, formerly of the Fabulous Thunderbirds, was not merely playing harp, but seemed to be defying several fundamental laws of physics.

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