Rubber City Review

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.

Bluesman Little Walter was the troubled genius of Chess Records.  But when it came to just plain crazy, it was hard to top Walter’s label-mate, Bo Diddley, who recorded some of the most demented sides in rock ‘n roll history.  A half-century later, those recordings still manage to startle us… Bo’s Guitar

Here Bo’s band locks into a groove that could have easily gone on for another 15-20 minutes at a typical Fifties juke joint. Pretty Thing

These two songs alone make the case that Bo — who signed his name “The Bo” and was referred to by The New York Times as “Mr. Diddley” — was the most original of all the early rockers.  He clearly shared Walter’s restless spirit and drive; a constant need to test the very limits of his equipment… and his audience.

Like the vast majority of people on this planet, I never had a chance to see Little Walter perform.  But I did play with The Bo – me and about 10,000 other bar-band veterans around the world.

You see, it became standard practice for the original rock royalty like Chuck Berry and Bo to hire pick-up bands in various towns to back them up for their gigs.  It went something like this: Bo’s manager would call a local promoter, who would recommend a local band, and said band would spend several hours (or days, depending on the band’s level of confidence) rehearsing Bo’s tunes – with no idea what Bo would unleash on them when he hit town.

Well, our band (The Warsaw Falcons) got the nod for several of his gigs in the Cincinnati area, and the first one was a custom car show at the old Cincinnati Gardens in 1983.  We figured that Bo would show up early and spend about an hour with us going over the set list and running through a few tunes.  No such luck.  We met Bo about 10 minutes before the gig, and the only direction he provided was telling our hapless drummer not to play the patented Bo Diddley beat (if you’re not familiar with it, please exit our site now)… “Only I play that beat, buddy!”

Things went better than expected, though, as Bo quickly whipped us into shape by barking out a few commands during the opener.  And we hung on tight for the rest of the set, doing our best to follow his every move and not get in the way.  It was an unsettling experience, looking out at an audience of classic cars on the floor of the Gardens (“I’d like to dedicate this one to that pretty little Chevy in the third row”)… but it was a huge thrill for me to play with the one and only Bo.  He even brought me to the front of the stage and made me kneel down – the only time I’ve ever done that outside of church.  I felt like I’d joined the sacred order of Bo sidemen… sort of the blues equivalent of the Masons.

It was also the only time anyone asked for my autograph (at least in a deep and meaningful way).  Apparently, a few of Bo’s overeager fans thought we were part of his traveling extravaganza, rather than semi-employed schlubs who only lived a few miles away.

We did two more gigs with The Bo – including one opening for The Temptations at Miami University.  The absolute best part of that experience was drinking beer in our dressing room and hearing the Temps warm up in the room next door by singing their hits a cappella.  Needless to say, we all wept openly.

The Bo with The Warsaw Falcons, 1983

Bo never had much to say to us.  He was bitter about the small amount of money he made from his hits while the next generation of rockers made millions.  And he would’ve rather been back home in Florida than feeding white folks’ hunger for nostalgia.  But he snapped out of character long enough to make me the butt of a very elaborate joke involving a baby peeing itself (when the punch line came, he squeezed a wet paper towel hidden in his fist, and the water ran over my outstretched palm… many laughs at my expense).

The Bo left this world on June 2, 2008, but his beat goes on in hundreds of bars on any given Saturday night.  I’ll leave you with these few examples of his power and glory… Amen!

Here’s a video clip of Bo in his prime, working out on You Can’t Judge A Book By Its Cover with the very sexy Duchess on second guitar (clearly he was ahead of his time by sharing the stage – back in the early Sixties, no less – with such a strong and capable woman!)…

The Warsaw Falcons’ intrepid sound man taped our gig with Bo right off the board.  But given the 26 years that have gone by since our 50 minutes of fame, I wouldn’t call this hi-fidelity.  Still, it’s worth sharing.  Here Bo gives a shout-out to all his main men and women from the Fifties (including himself!): Bo Testifies

This might be my favorite Bo artifact… Since he never brought his own amp with him, he always was at the mercy of someone else’s crappy equipment.  Apparently, he didn’t care much for my Fender Twin! Jack It Up

Greetings from Carefree, AZ… where they like to point out “it’s a ‘dry’ heat.”

I’m using this brief respite from the Rubber City as an opportunity to read yet another book about an important musician – even though I’ve gone far beyond the recommended lifetime quota for such books.

Unfortunately, I can’t recommend any of them to people who don’t share my obsessive-compulsive approach to American roots music.  Because once you strip away the “who played with who, what label, which session, who produced, what instruments/amplifiers/accessories were used, how impaired were the players, which substances were abused”… there’s really not that much left to talk about.

But as a service to my readers who aren’t inclined to care about such things, I’m offering this layman’s guide to a few of my favorites:

Hope that helps…

I’ve just finished “Blues with a Feeling: The Little Walter Story,” by Tony Glover, Scott Dirks and Ward Gaines.  And this one’s an especially tough read for those who have only a passing interest in the world’s greatest harmonica player.  It’s stuffed with details on virtually every session that featured Walter as a leader or sideman – not to mention countless gigs where he at least showed up to play (Walter was notorious for letting other harp players take over in the middle of his gigs so he could go somewhere else to drink or get high, or both).  But once again, I’m hooked… and I can’t believe it took me this long to read about the single most innovative and influential bluesman that Chicago ever spawned.

I’ve played blues harp in bar bands for years.  I learned by ear when I was a teenager, playing mostly bluegrass with my brothers and fumbling along to third-generation blues tunes covered by rock bands like The Allman Brothers Band and Derek and the Dominoes.  The latter’s version of Walter’s “Key to the Highway” is perfect for harp neophytes – nearly 10 minutes of the same chord changes, a steady mid-tempo groove, and no flashy harp player to discourage you. Key to the Highway — Derek & The Dominos

But like any self-respecting blues hound, I eventually decided it was time to sniff out the hard stuff, so I borrowed a Little Walter album that kept staring at me when I’d visit my sister – a two-record set that had this bizarre illustration on the cover of Walter in a tux, standing in front of what appears to be a shipwrecked bar.

But this record was the motherlode for aspiring harp players.  And if you felt the least bit insecure about your playing when you dropped the needle on this one, you’d surely toss your harmonicas out for good after hearing Walter’s unbeatable tone and technique.  Here’s one of my favorite solos from Walter’s own recordings… My friend Andy calls it one of his “runaway riffs” – a good way to describe Walter in full flight. Mellow Down Easy

Walter’s powerful instrumentals seemed to openly mock his competitors – a useless exercise when you consider he really didn’t have any peers.  And his stuff sounds just as fresh and vital today as it did when he first shook up the blues world back in the 1950s.

He saved some of his best riffs for tunes he recorded with Muddy Waters, and my favorite is his solo on Muddy’s I Just Want To Make Love To You.  I’m amazed he pulled this one off – it’s so outside and alien, light years ahead of what anyone was putting down in Chicago at the time.  Maybe there’s a reason he named one of his instrumentals Flying Saucer… On this one, it sounds like he beamed himself into the studio, straight from the spaceship. I Just Want To Make Love To You — Muddy Waters

Walter’s own singles became jukebox standards – both the instrumental Juke and the hugely popular My Babe hit number one on the nation’s R&B charts.  And he soon eclipsed Muddy as the most popular artist on the Chess Record label.  In the book, harp player Billy Boy Arnold tops the blues academics in describing Walter’s appeal: “…a girl told me once that ‘Little Walter sound like a hipped-up Muddy Waters,’ meaning the same music, just hipped up some – and she described it right.  He was just wailing, he was a swinger; a lot of beautiful solos.”

Of course, fame can be fleeting, and Walter soon was standing in the shadows of the new rock ‘n roll artists who were taking over the Chess studios – especially Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley… although “The Bo” (as he liked to call himself) and Walter had great respect for one another and even recorded the following classic together: Diddley Daddy — Bo Diddley

Walter was a rough character who seemed to literally fight his way through life.  He was beaten up by more than a few racist cops, but also stepped into a number of scrapes he could’ve easily avoided, including several with jealous husbands.  He eventually succumbed to full-blown alcoholism and died in 1968 when one too many blows to the head sent a blood clot to his heart (“Blues with a Feeling” includes at least seven or eight wildly different accounts of Walter’s last scuffle).

The book’s epilogue offers this sad and sobering look at Walter’s demise: “Maybe when he saw how fleeting the fame and fortune was, he lost respect for his own gift – and for himself. And once he began his prolonged downward spiral, circumstances and his own choices seemed to conspire to bring it to its inevitable conclusion.”

Walter on Disc:

If you’re starting to search for that two-LP set, rest easy — there’s plenty of Walter available on disc…

In a more perfect world, every new homeowner in America would receive a free copy of Walter’s “Best” — part of the Chess 50th Anniversary Collection.  Hard-core fans can dive into “The Complete Chess Masters: 1950-1967,” a five-disc, 126-track set on Hip-O Select.  However, it includes a number of duds and alternate takes and none of the 50-plus prime cuts Walter recorded with Muddy Waters and Jimmy Rogers.  But Walter was a jazzman at heart and never played the same solo twice, so the alternates can be supremely rewarding for more dedicated listeners.

Given the fact that Walter lived and played on the edge, there are few surviving videos showing him in action.  I’ll leave you with these two.

The first is a nice, if brief, career overview that played at his 2008 induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (oddly enough, as a sideman)… You can find it here.

The second appears to be the only available video on youtube of Walter performing live, with Hound Dog Taylor in Europe (1967).   Now I’m a big fan of both Walter and Taylor, but they weren’t the most compatible musicians.  Walter was an avowed disciple of jump-jazz great Louis Jordan, while Taylor clearly modeled himself after the far-raunchier Elmore James (for prime Hound Dog, check out “Release the Hound,” which includes live cuts recorded at various Cleveland dives).  In several interviews, Walter didn’t hide his disdain for Taylor’s down-home style.  But the video remains a fascinating look at two great bluesmen, playing it the only way they knew how.

Next up: “Me and The Bo,” or how I survived my brief stint as a Bo Diddley sideman.