Alright, guitar fans. I know all of you have your favorite examples of six-string nirvana – Derek & the Dominos, The Allman Brothers Band at Fillmore East, Stevie Ray Vaughan’s first album, Jeff Beck’s “Blow by Blow,” blah, blah, blah… But here’s one you’ve probably never heard.

The album: Chico Hamilton’s “The Dealer,” released on the Impulse! label in 1966. The guitarist: a 23-year-old Larry Coryell, making his recording debut. The bandleader: a legendary jazz drummer who started playing back in the late-‘30s in L.A. with his high school classmates Dexter Gordon, Charles Mingus and Illinois Jacquet.

Technically, “The Dealer” is a jazz album – but it stretches the meaning of that term at every turn. A couple of songs are in that riff-based, soul-jazz vein that the Blue Note label mined so well back in the Sixties. One is a fairly straight-ahead blues, at least the kind that you’d hear a classic organ combo play. Another takes a left turn into “psychedelic jazz” – because you couldn’t swing a dead, or stoned, cat back then without hitting a song aimed at that vast new audience known as the American hippie.

Rumor (aka Wikipedia) has it that Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor was a big fan of Coryell’s playing on this album. And to help prove the point, I’ve combined samples of solos from “The Dealer” and “Sticky Fingers.” First, you’ll hear Coryell launching into his break on For Mods Only (did they have to make the swinger reference so obvious?). Next, you’ll hear Taylor’s playing on the jazzy second half of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Given that Taylor appropriates big chunks of Coryell’s solo, I think it’s safe to say he spent a lot of time between ’66 and ’70 hooked on “The Dealer.” For Mods Only/Can’t You Hear Me Knocking

But the most startling moments on the album are right out of the gate, as Coryell makes a huge statement on the title cut. It’s the only jazz solo I’m aware of that sounds completely indebted to early rock ‘n roll – specifically, Chuck Berry. Coryell’s playing on this tune gets my attention every time it randomly shows up on my iPod. Clearly, he misspent much of his youth woodshedding along to rock and blues records… then he probably migrated to some Wes Montgomery, and maybe Django too. But all of these influences seem to come together organically – sorry, can’t think of a better adverb here – in Coryell’s loose and playful solo. The Dealer

As you can tell, Coryell also isn’t afraid to take his playing a little outside too. But he does it in a way that doesn’t sound the least bit calculated. I like how this next solo starts out fairly conventional and then devolves to the point where Coryell’s almost off the fretboard altogether. And Chico, another restless explorer, eggs him on with a few well-placed cracks of the snare. Now this is my idea of free jazz… Thoughts

Just when you think Coryell’s completely off the rails, he settles down and pulls off some pretty convincing blues licks. Although he’s credited with “writing” the next tune, it’s really not much of a composition – just a basic organ-combo workout that you could hear in countless inner-city clubs back in the Sixties (check this for more on the glory days of the B3). And he had the cojones to name the thing after himself, with a nod to another fearless wanderer… Larry of Arabia

If all this jaw-dropping guitar weren’t enough, the 1999 release of “The Dealer” on CD includes four bonus tracks from other sessions featuring the great Hungarian-born jazz guitarist Gabor Szabo. A master of the second-note drone and other exotic flourishes, Szabo was a big influence on Carlos Santana and many other Sixties rock guitarists (Santana used his original, Gypsy Queen, as the coda to Peter Green’s Black Magic Woman). Here’s Szabo strutting his stuff on El Toro… El Toro

Coryell went on to a successful career playing in a number of settings, including jazz-rock with his band The Eleventh House (can’t say I’m a fan; I prefer one of his more acoustic outings, which we touched on here). Approaching his 90^th birthday, Chico currently teaches at The New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music in New York City and occasionally tours with his band Euphoria. He played in Lena Horne’s band… scored music for film and TV… recorded with Rolling Stone Charlie Watts… mentored more contemporary rockers like former Spin Doctors guitarist Eric Schenkman and Blues Traveler John Popper… and, for my money, almost stole the show on the HBO documentary “The Jazz Baroness.”

I’m sure both men look back at “The Dealer” as a defining moment – a near-perfect start for Coryell, and a high point in Hamilton’s successful run as a bandleader in the Sixties, often with the popular Charles Lloyd on sax and Szabo on guitar.

We’ll close it out with Coryell playing some very Wes-like runs on this ballad, written by Chico and arranger Jimmy Cheatham… Baby, You Know

Chico in 2009, Live at Borders… When I’m 88, I’d like to have a steady gig at the local bookstore (but I’m assuming such establishments won’t exist when I’m that age).

Sunday morning – a time of worship. And for me, that worship involves a cup of joe, the Sunday Times, and a playlist of soul-soothing music. (Hey, I did 12 years of hard time at parochial schools, so you Bible-thumpers can just back off right now!)

Now this sacred songlist is about as close as I get to much-maligned labels like Easy Listening or New Age. But don’t expect Mantovani, Enya, Celtic Women or Windham Hill. I’m trying to wake up, not go back to sleep.

On the other hand, I rarely play gospel music on Sunday morning. That’s because the best gospel music, in terms of energy level, is right up there with Metallica or the Jonas Brothers. It’s really something that should be experienced in person – preferably in an inner-city, African-American, “make you sweat, sway and swoon” church (I’m still searching for the right one, honest… I swear). But as an appropriate soundtrack for Arts and Leisure, it just doesn’t fit the bill.

Then again, Sunday morning music should not be without a certain aura of spirituality, as subtle as it might be. I’m thinking Coltrane-like spirituality, as embodied by both John and Alice. Or even the worshipful sound of Bill Evans or Ahmad Jamal on piano. And let’s stick with instrumentals for now. I’m going after an ecumenical vibe. Lyrics, like the Good Book itself, are subject to different interpretations and endless debate.

Someone suggested I should mix it up with a little Sanskrit chanting. So I gave it a shot. But I guess I’m a little too American to take that leap. Repetition’s cool when you hear it in a song by John Lee Hooker or Lightnin’ Hopkins, but kind of annoying when delivered by your yoga teacher. Besides, chanting reminds me of the Hare Krishnas I spent much of the ‘70s avoiding at airports.

With that off my chest, I’ll also admit that one of my favorite Sunday-morning albums is a musical love letter to Eastern culture and religion. John McLaughlin gained fame and notoriety with his fiery electric guitar on Miles Davis’ landmark “Bitches Brew” album (definitely not Sunday morning music). But his solo album from 1970, “My Goals Beyond,” is something altogether different. The songs were assembled as a tribute to his Indian guru Sri Chinmoy, and McLaughlin plays stunning acoustic guitar throughout in settings that range from single-note meditations to big, droning passages with soprano sax, violin, tablas and drums. It may be a product of its time, but “My Goals Beyond” is a timeless piece of work with moments of great beauty – like this one from his original composition, Follow Your Heart: Follow Your Heart/John McLaughlin

If Alice Coltrane taught us anything, it’s that spiritual music isn’t necessarily “happy” music – it can be dark and dangerous but still uplifting. And few songs prove this point better than the next one. This groove sounds ancient to me, as old as any root that feeds the blues. The bass player is jazz legend Ron Carter – another Miles Davis alumnus – and he’s laying down one of the great bottom lines of all time. Then there’s Alice, playing an instrument normally associated with heavenly bliss. But this harp sounds as deep as the dark soil beneath us. It’s powerful stuff, haunting yet hopeful… from a master who left us in 2007. Given the huge shadow cast by her husband, she remains one of the jazz world’s most underrated artists. Huntington Ashram Monastery/Alice Coltrane

With due respect to Alice, let’s move on to a song by John Coltrane – and so many great ones to choose from. In an earlier post, I confessed that I tend to bail out of Coltrane’s more manic, atonal pieces. Some would argue that those performances are his crowning achievements. I prefer the more melodic vibe of his Atlantic recordings, as well as his earlier albums for the Impulse! label, like “Crescent” and “Coltrane.” Although a jazz standard, this next song – named after Coltrane’s first wife, Juanita Naima Grubb – seems to have the more universal appeal of a simple prayer. Naima/John Coltrane

Jazz producer Orrin Keepnews clearly knew good Sunday music when he heard it, which is why he booked New York City’s fabled Village Vanguard on Sunday, June 25, 1961, to record five separate performances by pianist Bill Evans and his trio. Two years prior, Evans played a key role in what many critics consider to be the greatest jazz album ever recorded, Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” (are you noticing a theme here?). Davis loved Evan’s quietly expressive playing, and the two shared an appreciation of the empty spaces in music that can create far more drama than a flurry of notes. You can hear the same, sparse delivery on “Sunday at the Village Vanguard,” as well as near-telepathic interplay among Evans and his band mates, bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian. Improvisational music of the highest order – appropriate for any day of the week: Gloria’s Step (Take 2)/Bill Evans Trio

I can’t resist including another Miles Davis favorite, pianist Ahmad Jamal… and instead of speaking for Miles again, I’ll just share the man’s own words (from “Miles: The Autobiography”): “I had gone to hear him once when I was out that way (Chicago, where the Pittsburgh native had a steady gig at the Pershing Hotel) and he knocked me out with his concept of space, his lightness of touch, his understatement, and the way he phrased notes and chords and passages… I loved his lyricism on piano, the way he played and the spacing he used in the ensemble voicing of his groups. I have always thought Ahmad Jamal was a great piano player who never got the recognition he deserved.” Jamal’s still performing and is scheduled to appear at the Newport Jazz Festival on August 7. I usually start my Sundays with this gorgeous cut from “The Awakening”: Patterns/Ahmad Jamal

Guitarist Larry Coryell is commonly associated with the band Eleventh House, which played that dreaded form of music called jazz fusion that many of us listened to back in the day. I can’t bear to hear five notes of the stuff today (which, of course, takes less than a millisecond for your typical jazz fusion band to play). But Coryell put out a fine acoustic/electric album in ’74, “The Restful Mind” – and it serves as a nice companion piece to McLaughlin’s “My Goal’s Beyond.” It has one of those “seagull and sunset” covers with classic Seventies typography… something you’d typically see on the front of a self-help book. But the music inside tells a different story, drawing from sources as diverse as French composer Maurice Ravel, American songwriter Jimmy Webb, and the Eastern-influenced band Oregon, which backs Coryell on “Mind.” Trust me, it all somehow works. Julie La Belle/Larry Coryell

The paper’s read (mostly skimmed)… coffee’s cold… time to walk the dog and pick up whatever bottles landed in my yard last night. But I’m still feeling the spirit as I listen to Astral Traveling, a cut from Pharoah Sanders’ 1971 release, “Thembi.” And although I’ve never experienced myself outside of this mortal coil, I get the sense that anything’s possible as I drift away on the heavenly sound of Pharoah’s soprano sax. My dog sits and stares, but with an ear cocked to the speaker… maybe she’s feeling the spirit too. Astral Traveling/Pharoah Sanders

All that talk about Miles and nothing to show for it. I’ll fix that. Miles Davis with John Coltrane – 4/2/59, CBS Studio 61, New York City. That sound, that look… Forget about his screwed-up personal life. The man clearly had tapped into something eternal.

Here’s an album that came and went a couple of years ago, but I keep getting sucked back into its strange vortex. It answers the question, what happens when a fairly twisted French dude records a loving tribute to his favorite American musical influences?

His name is Don Cavalli, and I’m surprised his latest release, “Cryland,” didn’t get more notice (although the British rock mag Mojo ranked it #12 of their 50 best albums of 2008, noting that “Cryland” is “appealing low-fi and iTunes eclectic… 21^st century psychedelic”). If you’re looking for brilliant lyrics or multiple layers of meaning, go somewhere else. This is all about deep, swampy grooves and gutbucket guitar played through overdriven tube amps. In other words, my kind of music… River/Don Cavalli

Cavalli’s casual approach to songwriting reminds me a lot of J.J. Cale – a true master at creating an overall mood and timeless vibe that transcends the material. J.J.’s done this better than anyone for about 50 years. And he’s still bringing the goods, with the possible exception of his recent collaboration with Eric Clapton (I’m not sure if Clapton has another good album in him). Here’s the intro to one of my favorite cuts from Cale’s 2004 release, “To Tulsa and Back”: New Lover/J.J. Cale

Cavalli’s another restless explorer of vintage sounds and riffs, with the same minimalist approach to guitar playing and songwriting as J.J., but maybe a little more edge and energy. Yeah, you’ll probably think you’ve heard some of these lines before: “Moon is a-risin’, sun is sinkin’ down low, wind is a-howlin’, been down lonesome with gloom.” But it’s hard to resist sturdy little tunes like the next one, especially if you share my weakness for rough and rootsy guitar: Vitamin A/Don Cavalli

The quirk factor also is fairly high on “Cryland.” And I guarantee you’ve never come across songs quite like New Hollywood Babylon and other oddball gems by Cavalli. It’s like someone stuffed all of these American influences – blues, country, rockabilly, cajun – into a Euro/Franco processing machine and hit the random switch. It’s nice to hear those influences subverted with such “aggress-shawn,” as he sings on one tune. I guess I’m also a sucker for strangled syntax, wha-wha guitars that seem to come out of nowhere, trashcan rhythms – not to mention whacked-out numbers like this one… Wonder Chairman/Don Cavalli

Make no mistake, this guy can play. But it’s hard to find much of substance written about Cavalli. From what little I’ve found on the Web, it appears he spent a number of years playing in rockabilly bands.

With “Cryland,” he seems to be moving away from more obvious tributes to his American idols, and closer toward establishing himself as a true original. His next album lands in 2011 – hopefully we’ll be around to share some of it with you.

Talk about creating a mood… I love this stark, ethereal video for River. I’m sure it involved a small budget, but a fair amount of choreography.

I have more than 21,000 songs on my iPod. And I wrap tin foil around my head to keep out the gamma rays.

Do you think less of me? I’m referring to the iPod, of course. Normal people would find this to be a symptom of OCD. Audiophiles would scoff at the idea of listening to all this music in a highly compressed electronic format. My brother thinks I should be more selective in terms of what I put on my iPod. But my wife likes the fact that hundreds of CDs, records and tapes are now stashed away in the deep recesses of my basement (where I routinely hunt for liner notes to help me with these posts).

One thing about having this many songs on your iPod is that you can put it on shuffle and still feel that sense of discovery. I mean, how many of those tunes could I actually listen to before I dumped them into my library? It’s like tapping into a radio station programmed by a guy with… well, tin foil wrapped around his head.

And that’s the subject of today’s post. No, not mental illness. I thought I’d put the entire contents of my iPod on shuffle and write about what pops up.

This exercise was not audited by the blog authorities. You only have my word that I didn’t screw with the results. As usual, I was surprised by what the little genie in my iPod chose to play. And, as usual, the results reflect the fact that I am completely out of touch with today’s youth culture (Exhibit A: use of term “youth culture”).

But first, let me point out that I typically don’t put my entire iPod on shuffle. It’s simply too dangerous, especially if I’m driving. I once almost drove into oncoming traffic after Coltrane segued into Coldplay, which I’m sure ended up on my music library by accident.

I prefer using playlists – even if they include several hundred songs – and I’ve got some great ones.  Drinking songs (see “There Stands the Glass“)… pure, unfiltered honky tonk… post-war jump blues and R&B, including some rare reissues that appeared on CD for about five minutes (see “Jumpin’ the Blues“)… choice cuts from the glory years of Blue Note… playlists devoted to other great labels like Stax, Sun, Fania, Riverside…

I even have my own genres – mainly because I don’t like the ones provided by the record companies. For example, I think Freddie King, Link Wray and Lonnie Mack belong in the same category as Dick Dale. So I created the genre “Surf & Beyond.” Django Reinhardt doesn’t really go with my jazz stuff… he has his own genre. The Black Keys’ “Chulahoma,” G. Love’s “Coast to Coast Motel” and John Hammond’s “Wicked Grin”? Dirty Blues. And, as I’ve already pointed out, R&B ain’t Kool & the Gang. It’s Louis Jordan, Wynonie Harris and Big Joe Turner. So take that, Mister Genre-Impaired, Think-Inside-The-Box Record Man!

But back to the grand experiment. The first tune selected by my iPod is… Strollin’ With Bone, from T-Bone Walker’s “Complete Imperial Recordings.” Whew… damn good start! I’ve always been a big fan of T-Bone, and this is one of his best numbers. T-Bone started out as a street dancer, which helps explain his almost percussive attack along with a completely original sense of time and phrasing. And he had a huge influence on virtually every blues guitarist who followed – especially flamethrowers like Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown and Johnny “Guitar” Watson. Strollin’ With Bone/T-Bone Walker

Next up – honky-tonk hero Dwight Yoakam, from his 2005 comeback of sorts, “Blame the Vain.” This isn’t my favorite cut from the album (the title song is one of Dwight’s best). But there’s a lot to like on “Blame.” Dwight’s singing is less affected than on his first recordings. And his new hot-shit guitarist, Keith Gattis, has plenty of opportunities to show off… like this nasty little riff he uses to bring the song back down to the key of E: Intentional Heartache/Dwight Yoakam

Now the iPod genie picks the great Professor Longhair, the King of New Orleans Piano. This is from the 2-CD set “The Mercury Blues ‘n’ Rhythm Story 1945-55: Southwest Blues” – actually one of four releases in a first-rate overview of Mercury’s landmark R&B recordings. I’m not sure if there is such a thing as a bad cut by Longhair. I can highly recommend the nine that show up on the Mercury collection… as well as Rhino Records’ “’Fess: The Professor Longhair Anthology” and especially “House Party New Orleans Style,” which features two of my favorite guitarists of all time – Gatemouth Brown and Snooks Eaglin. Been Fooling Around/Professor Longhair

Here’s a tune written by Johnny Cash but performed by the Louvin Brothers, who showed up in our recent post on harmony singing. You have to wonder what pit of despair Cash stumbled into to write this one: “Lord have mercy on me was the kneeling drunkard’s plea, and as he knelt there on the ground I know that God in heaven looked down… Bring my darling boy to me was his mother’s dying plea, and as he staggered through the gate alas he came just one day too late.” Give me a few minutes to recover… I’ll be right back. Kneeling Drunkard’s Plea/The Louvin Brothers

We stagger from that one to Hearsay by The Soul Children – a vocal quartet, split evenly across gender lines, that recorded for the Stax label in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Both of the male Soul Children – Norman West and J. Blackfoot – still perform today. This tune sounds oddly reminiscent of Soul Man, which is exactly what Stax songwriters Isaac Hayes and David Porter had in mind… They were hoping to strike gold with a different combination after Sam & Dave slipped away (they remained with Atlantic following a split with Stax in ‘68). You can find Hearsay on a two-disc compilation from 2007 celebrating Stax’s 50^th Anniversary. Hearsay/The Soul Children

From Memphis we head up to Chicago – following the same route that Howlin’ Wolf took from Sun to Chess Records back in 1953. A year later he cut the song Forty-Four, one of many interpretations of a blues standard first recorded by Roosevelt Sykes in 1929. The original is more curious than menacing, with “44” used to reference a gun, a train and a cabin. Wolf, on the other hand, has one thing in mind, and that’s pumping lead into the poor sonofabitch who messed with his woman. Essential Chicago blues – with Hubert Sumlin and Jody Williams on guitars, Otis Spann on piano, Willie Dixon on bass and Earl Phillips on drums. Forty-Four/Howlin’ Wolf

And why wouldn’t you follow up that one with the dazzling sax of Sonny Stitt, playing the George and Ira Gershwin favorite Nice Work If You Can Get It? Yeah, I’m starting to get a little whiplash too. But at least this one’s by a master like Stitt, and not Sting (thankfully, I have a very effective “Sting-B-Gone” filter installed on my iPod). This version is from the 3-CD box set “Stitt’s Bits: The Bebop Recordings, 1949-1952”… with liner notes by Cleveland’s Harvey Pekar (“American Splendor”). Nothing groundbreaking on it, so don’t run out and get it – unless you happen to like beautifully executed jazz by one of the greatest sax players to ever roam the planet. Nice Work If You Can Get It/Sonny Stitt

Talk about whiplash… now we’re back in the honky tonks, this time with California cowgirl Heather Myles. I love the collection this song is from: “Rum and Rodeo,” which pulls select cuts from Heather’s first two albums on the Hightone label. She’s got a lot of that hard, Bakersfield sound in her… I’m sure she’s a woman you wouldn’t want to trifle with. An American original with loads of talent – playing music that’s authentic, honest and heartfelt. Wonder why she never caught on in Nashville? The Other Side Of Town/Heather Myles

Now let’s go down to the Crawdad Hole with Big Joe Turner. This tune is from “Big, Bad & Blue,” an essential overview of Big Joe’s storied career as the Boss of the Blues. You could argue that his glory days were long gone by the time he recorded this number in 1983 with R&B revivalists Roomful of Blues. But I would’ve paid good money to hear Big Joe sing along with the organ player at the ballpark. Now strap me in a time machine and take me back to Kansas City, 1935, Big Joe shoutin’ the blues over the boogie-woogie piano of the great Pete Johnson. Crawdad Hole/Big Joe Turner

We should’ve stopped right there… but I let my iPod play one more song, and up pops Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye. Actually, once you get past the crappy production, it’s a pretty damn good song. In fact, I’m not sure if anyone has ever celebrated the joys of getting it on with as much passion as Mr. Gaye. Well, maybe R. Kelly… but the only healing R. has in mind involves Feelin’ On Yo Booty (this is the same guy who recorded Heaven, I Need A Hug??). Come back, Marvin – we need you now more than ever…

R.I.P., Harvey… On the same morning I pushed the button on this one, Harvey Pekar passed away. Here’s a nice tribute in today’s New York Times. I found it interesting that Pekar might have been banned from the Letterman Show for lashing out against General Electric, then Letterman himself started trash-talking GE toward the end of his tenure at NBC. Here’s a clip of Harvey’s tirade… he’ll be missed (now I feel silly for wasting even a sliver of bandwidth on LeBron).

Nephew Dan is a busy man – touring the world and all – but he wanted us to check out this awesome clip of Otis Rush in his prime, playing in front of a polite but reverent audience of well-dressed white folk…

After viewing this performance (and, unlike most of the audience members, regaining my composure), I had a few important questions: Had Otis and band stumbled onto the set of a TV game show? Did someone pay him to wear the white sweater? And what the hell was this all about?

Turns out this was one of several performances from the fifth year of the American Folk Blues Festival, which toured Europe almost annually from 1962 to 1972. Five additional festivals were held from 1980 to 1985, but these earlier tours were notable for two important reasons. First, they had a powerful influence on the British blues movement of the early ’60s – especially artists like Mick Jagger, Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton. And second, they provided rare opportunities to capture American blues artists like Sonny Boy Williamson, Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Skip James, Son House, Big Mama Thornton, Bukka White and many others, using some of the best studio and video equipment of the era.

For these and other reasons, we have several people to thank – including German jazz publicist Joachim-Ernst Berendt, who first came up with the idea, and promoters Horst Lippmann and Fritz Rau, who followed through on it.

This particular performance was shot at a small TV studio in Germany, October 1966. And of course, I had to find a few other clips from the same show. Here’s one with Otis and band (Fred Below on drums… not sure who’s playing bass… maybe Sunnyland Slim on piano?) backing up the great Junior Wells.

I’m sure you gearheads know what kind of mic he’s singing and playing through… I need me one of them.

It’s easy to get lost on youtube watching all of these jaw-dropping AFBF shows… I’ll just share a couple more and then tell you where to buy all this stuff on DVD. The first features blues legends Sonny Boy Williamson and Otis Spann playing a very laid-back version of Nine Below Zero. Sonny Boy is far from his peak, but his delivery is the very definition of deep blues – about as soulful as you can get…

Then we get to Howlin’ Wolf, the Taildragger… where the soul of man never dies. Smokestack Lighting – from a 1964 performance in England with Sunnyland Slim, Willie Dixon on bass and Wolf’s long-time musical foil Hubert Sumlin on guitar. The Brits seem far more excitable than the Germans… Joscha, would you like to weigh in on this?

These and many other performance are available on four volumes of DVDs from Reelin’ In The Years Productions… They’re listed below for your shopping convenience. And remember, a small fraction of each purchase goes toward ensuring I have the meds needed to write these posts at 3 a.m.

Dressed up to get messed up… Good friend and photog Rick Zaidan took this shot of Junior Wells in the mid-’80s at the former Palomino Lounge in Cleveland:

“Junior was touring with Buddy Guy,” Rick said. “We got there about four hours before the show to get a table up front. (Rick’s friend) John had my Buddy Guy Checkerboard Lounge T-shirt on, and Buddy noticed it during a sound check. Buddy came up to us and said, ‘where the hell did you get that shirt?’ I told him I ordered it from a catalog. Buddy said, ‘shit man, I’m not makin’ any money off that shirt… I’m going to have to talk to those motherfuckers.’ He was pissed but autographed the shirt anyway… At one point during the show, Buddy did the requisite walk-around solo using a 200-foot guitar cord. Most of the crowd followed Buddy outside while he soloed in the middle of Lorain Ave. Good times.”

For you photo buffs out there: Rick took the shot with an “ancient” Leica M3 rangefinder, “because it was a very quiet camera… I got some good shots but still didn’t have anything great. With my last three frames I just walked up to Junior and snapped this shot. One of my all-time favorites.”

I’ve played blues harp for years… not on the same level as, say, Charlie Musselwhite, but I can get the attention of a bar full of drunks.

One band I played in never seemed to make it through a gig without some cocky amateur, usually with just one harp, asking if he could get up on stage and jam on some blues. Since I was the resident cocky amateur, I was always put off by these requests… “Go out and start your own crappy white blues band.” Finally, our frontman came up with the perfect response: “Look, we’d love to have you sit in, but every guy in this band plays harmonica, and we’re pretty damn sick of it.”

Which was basically true, underscoring one of the challenges of the instrument and harp players in general. Let’s face it, most of us pick it up out of sheer convenience – who the hell wants to drag a piano up a flight of stairs? And it takes literally minutes for a newbie to play like Bob Dylan or Neil Young. Unfortunately, very few harp players are willing to take the time to move beyond stringing together a few blues riffs and basic tricks and actually learn a melody, no matter how rudimentary it might be. Then there’s Butter… Work Song

Paul Butterfield grew up in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood, not far from the tough South Side clubs where blues royalty like Muddy Waters, Little Walter and Howlin’ Wolf held court on a regular basis. Butterfield’s background was decidedly middle-class – as a kid, he took flute lessons from a member of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, which might explain his more melodic approach to the harmonica. But I wouldn’t describe his playing as “pretty.”

In the notes to Robert Gordon’s excellent book “Can’t Be Satisfied: The Life and Times of Muddy Waters,” you can find a quote from Butterfield that underlines the futility of his parents’ early efforts to turn him into a classical musician:

“What we played was music that was entirely indigenous to the neighborhood, to the city what we grew up in… There was no doubt in my mind that this was folk music; this was what I heard on the streets of my city, out the windows, on radio stations and jukeboxes of Chicago and all throughout the South, and it was what people listened to. And that’s what folk meant to me – what people listened to.”

A wise man (probably someone who wrote the liner notes to an album I no longer own) once compared Butterfield’s style to that of a great prizefighter, which seemed to ring true to me. Always dancing around, bobbing, jabbing, waiting for the right opening for that big hook… you get the point. Here’s Butterfield, boxing his way through a knockout performance on 1972’s “Better Days”… Highway 28

Obviously, by the time Butterfield recorded that number, he’d long been under the spell of his blues idols, especially Muddy Waters and Little Walter. He’s often credited with exposing them to a huge new audience – mainly white college kids who couldn’t get enough of what they were hearing in Chicago blues clubs.

Butter even stole Howlin’ Wolf’s rhythm section – bassist Jerome Arnold and drummer Sam Lay – back in the early ‘60s to form one of the first interracial blues bands. But he made up for that slight by landing gigs for Muddy and Wolf on Chicago’s predominately white North Side, and later in concert halls on the east and west coasts. And that helped lay the groundwork for their resurgent careers in the late ‘60s and ‘70s.

“Blues With A Feeling: The Little Walter Story,” by Tony Glover, Scott Dirks and Ward Gaines, offers a less-than-flattering portrait of Butterfield and his relationship with his idol Walter:

“(Little Walter’s guitarist) Luther Tucker recalls Butterfield coming to gigs and plying Walter with a half-pint of whiskey, trying to find out how he played certain numbers. ‘You think Walter was a helpful kind of guy who’d show you stuff?’ Butterfield asked. ‘Well he wasn’t, he was a nasty sonofabitch who’d tell you to get the fuck away from him.’” Then the authors claim that Butterfield “may be a less-than-reliable informant… many people found him difficult and arrogant.”

Later in the book, a Chicago blues enthusiast disputes Butterfield’s account of how Walter treated him, noting that Walter loved Butterfield and thought he was a good player. Butterfield, on the other hand, was just “looking for a place where he could perform.” Sound familiar?

Muddy and Butter, from "The Last Waltz"

Even if Butterfield wanted to help him, Walter was too far gone by then (mainly booze) to benefit from his support. But Muddy and Wolf clearly seized the opportunity – especially Muddy, who maintained a long-standing relationship with Butterfield over the years. They played together on The Band’s 1976 swan song, “The Last Waltz” (Muddy’s performance is by far my favorite from the movie). And Butter blows like mad on this cut from “Fathers and Sons” – recorded live with Muddy in ’69… Baby Please Don’t Go/Muddy Waters with Paul Butterfield

Like Walter, Butterfield wrestled with some serious demons during his short life, and he eventually passed away in 1987 due to complications from long-term alcohol abuse. He was only 44, but looked much worse for wear and tear.

Butterfield’s greatest legacy may have been ensuring that a lot more folks listened to the artists who inspired him… guys like Muddy and Wolf and Walter who invented electric blues in the clubs of Chicago.

Nothing can replace the legendary Chess recordings by the originators of Chicago blues. But I’ll put Butterfield up there with the best of the second-generation bluesmen, based on the gritty, hard-driving sound of his harp alone. He also had a soulful voice and, at least in the early years, managed to put together and run bands that simply destroyed the competition – especially the hippie shoegazers they shared the bill with at the Fillmore in San Francisco.

Here are just a few of my favorite moments from albums Butter recorded as both a bandleader and sideman…

Butterfield is probably best known for the recordings he made in 1965 with Mike Bloomfield and Elvin Bishop on guitars, Arnold and Lay holding down the rhythm, and Mark Naftalin on keyboards – basically, his first album on Elektra. Born In Chicago, written by Nick Gravenites, became his signature song… here’s a taste: Born In Chicago

The title cut to Butter’s next album, “East-West,” was a 13-minute Indian-influenced freakout that was first titled The Raga. Written by Bloomfield, the instrumental was their most pronounced departure from the Chicago blues that informed the band’s earliest recordings. It might have been a calculated nod to their fans at the Fillmore – and it sounds a little dated today – but East West definitely has its moments. And I’ll give Butterfield and Bloomfield credit for being so determined to break out of the blues mold. East West

By the late-‘60s, Butterfield had put together a big, 10-piece band with five horn players, including a guy who eventually became a staple on smooth-jazz stations – David Sanborn. You really get the sense of this band’s fearsome reputation on “The Paul Butterfield Blues Band Live,” recorded in 1970 at the Troubadour in L.A. But my favorite moment is Butterfield alone with his harp, on the powerful opening to Everything’s Gonna Be Alright… In just a short minute, he shines a light on all that’s good and right about the Mississippi saxophone. Everything’s Gonna Be Alright

“Better Days” (1972) isn’t often listed among Butterfield’s best albums, but it’s one I always come back to – mainly because it brings him together with blues chanteuse Maria Muldaur, the great guitarist Amos Garrett and New Orleans piano legend Ronnie Barron. The album shows the full range of Butterfield’s talent, moving seamlessly from roadhouse rockers to more meditative blues like this remake of Nobody’s Fault But Mine… Nobody’s Fault But Mine

“The Muddy Waters Woodstock Album” is another underrated gem – one of Muddy’s best latter-day recordings (1975). It’s hard not to like an album with The Band’s Garth Hudson playing blues accordion and Levon Helm pounding away on what sounds like a Civil War-era drum kit. It also features the great Pinetop Perkins on piano. But none of them bring it like Butterfield, who attacks a few of these old warhorses (Caldonia, Kansas City, Let The Good Times Roll) like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he did, because personal problems had derailed his career by the mid-’70s. You couldn’t tell by listening to Butter’s blazing solo on this one… Going Down To Main Street/Muddy Waters with Paul Butterfield

Paul Butterfield on the TV show “To Tell The Truth” – probably around ’65. Sort of a remedial blues comprehension test. I like how the celebrity panel members try to “out-hip” one another with their questions… “Do you happen to know the name of (a jug band) that comes from Boston?” ”Do you know a Negro blues guitarist from Houston?” “What are the instruments in the Modern Jazz Quartet?” Don’t tell me Orson Bean and Peggy Cass smoked dope and hung out in the West Village… my head would explode.