As a progressive rock fan, Blues music wasn’t really on my radar at the time I had my climbing accident. Sitting at home with a pot on my right leg, I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do with the crappy, pillbox red, six-string stratocaster copy sitting in front of me. It was, in hindsight, a mammoth start of a journey that I still travel with many a twist and turn, but when you pick up a plank for the first time, it’s a daunting prospect plucking & strumming an instrument that immediately sounds like a cat being run over.
Clapton was my starting point, and after many frustrating sessions, I finally mastered Wonderful Tonight and the repetitive throng of the Animals House of the Rising Sun.
In fact, second to climbing, much to my family’s distaste, I found that I could actually play the damn thing without knowing what the hell I was doing. Much like my climbing style of the time.
After a few history lessons from fellow guitarists, I started to get into the Delta, Mississippi and Chicago Blues greats: Freddie King, Chuck Berry, John Lee Hooker, Albert Collins, Albert King and my favourites, Muddy Walters and Howling Wolf.
The last two artists blew my mind wide open and whilst my peers, friends and girlfriends were embracing the full on indie 1989 scene, I had those 3 chord dirty licks resonating round my bedroom night and day. Suckered in and high on the heart felt lyrics, tones and simply brutal, yet beautiful songs of the masters, I was hooked.
Strangely enough, it was whilst watching the 1984 Tom Cruise film, Risky Business, laid up, pot-legged that led me to discover Muddy Walters and the seminal Mannish Boy. Despite the lovely Rebecca De Mornay’s charming presence, more of interest to me was the high-class hookers party scene, set to Muddy’s raunchy gravel like tones interspersed with that infamous five-note guitar/harmonica combo riff.
Manish Boy starts with simple, thin blues licks from a rare for the time electric guitar, Muddy’s band hollering in the background before that iconic riff kicks in, Muddy claiming he’s a ‘Hoochie Coochie Man’.
Written by Willie Dixon and performed by Walters, Hoochie Coochie Man was a similar five riff that song that gripped me. The Hoochie Coochie was a sexually provocative dance that became wildly popular during and after the Chicago World's Fair in 1893. A Hoochie Coochie Man was a man of dubious virtue that encouraged this bumbing and grinding, often-making money out of the performing girls…the oldest game in the book. That scene in Risky Business with Muddy’s Mannish boy belting out suddenly made sense.
At the time of my accident, the late Jeff Heely, a seminal, wonderful Canadian guitarist, blind from birth, who played his guitar on his lap, covered Hoochie Coochie Man for a lame Patrick Swayze film, Roadhouse.
Despite the naffness of the film, one thing that came of it was that I used it as a soundtrack to learn the song. Soon after the pot came off, I was then invited to join a fairly successful local blues band to perform the number at the Christmas show in my local Village.
My first gig, a month or so after picking up a guitar and I had been asked to play and sing a Muddy Walters number, not just A Muddy Walters number, but maybe THE Muddy number! No pressure then…
First things first – I needed a better guitar. I think I had pretty much broken the loanee Start (a trend that seems to haunt me with guitars to this day) I flogged some climbing gear for much more than I paid for it and bought a cheap Gibson Les Paul copy. Although it sounded like a banjo and was heavy as a pregnant hippo, I procured it on the strength that we eventually managed to make it sound like it was crapping like thunder through a Marshall Amplifier. Good enough.
A week later came the gig. I wasn’t scared or apprehensive, I was absolutely cacking me crackers. The set up was fairly professional I have to say and the crowd was made up of hardened fans of the blues that had seen many an act, first-rate and shocking. I was convinced I would end up the latter genre…
To compound things the leader of the band, Steve, the rhythm guitarist, decided that I would come on fairly late, give me some time to practise and have a few ‘courage sherberts’. Again in the unfortunate series of events; this was in the guise of a few Jack Daniels “get em down ya lad – all the best guitarists drink this…”
I had never touched the stuff and it was vile. Safe to say, I didn’t feel very rock & roll when I tipped up on stage in front of a few hundreds of merry, warmed up punters, more Keith Chegwin than Keith Richards. If the nerves weren’t going to get me, sure as hell the Jack was.
With hindsight, having played a few gigs since, I realised Steve knew his stuff. Go on late and most people are too blotted to soak up any more crap and so just go with the noise in front of them. Thank god. For some reason I had decided to adopt a Paul Rogers one-legged stomp during the performance (a lá Free). My mate asked me after if I needed the toilet.
As it happened I did. The song went down well with the lushed up crowd and I must admit the band carried me, no honest, really… it was all…shucks… thanks…
Oh dear. I then knew the real meaning of stage fright, the churning fear, nervous anticipation, the harsh reality of the moment and the sickening feeling that Mr Daniels had heaped upon me.
For some reason, at the time I thought that as a teenager, having a kettle to make your mates drinks in your bedroom would be cool. No need to go down to the kitchen, having to see the parents and get any grief. I know, a bit of a crap idea.
However the last duty of said kettle was a heroic saving of the mixture of the nights fear and bourbon fuelled events. The ‘comin of the boy child’ wasn’t what it should be – moreover I spectacularly filled its contents with projectile vomit accompanied with that horrid spit, cheek suck, lip-lick smack action.
My introduction to live Chicago Blues, 15 years old, a crap guitar & voice ended in ultimate humiliation. That should be enough to put me off bothering with it all ever again, end of. Not bothered with it all, no blues artist will ever tempt me back playing live...
I got invited back the next week for a small gig to play a B.B. King Song: The Thrill is gone.
Uneducated, ignorant and uninspired I asked…
Bee Bee Who?
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