..By Larry Benicewicz

I have to hand it to the principals of Fat Possum records based in Oxford, MS,  including founder (in 1991) Mathew Johnson and right-hand man and producer, Bruce Watson, who have slowly built a genuine roots record label, focusing upon new talent while deliberately eschewing the now all too pervasive commercial slickness of their competition - think Nashville produced blues. With regularity, they manage to pull a rabbit from the hat, discovering a diamond in the rough, a heretofore unrecorded country bluesman, who has somehow managed to slip between the cracks and evaded detection for seemingly eons by some of  the best,  rival music scouts. Typically, these artists are late bloomers and self-taught, who have honed their skills playing in little dives and juke joints in hamlets along the Delta or in the hill country of Mississippi, or maybe just on their back porch, while entertaining for friends at fish fries or barbecues. Some in fact, being shy and retiring in nature, like Robert Belfour and the recently departed Charles Caldwell (see the review of his solitary album, Remember Me, in last months Bluesrag) were rather bemused by all this sudden attention after having toiled for so long in such obscurity and only reluctantly came out of the blues closet so to speak to expand both their cultural and musical horizons.

Although he shares a lot of characteristics with these two Mississippi bluesmen (the former with whom he has frequently toured), for example, beginning his career rather late in life and not being unearthed until the mid-90s, T-Model Ford does not have a vocabulary which includes such words as “shy,” “retiring,” or, heaven forbid, “reluctant.”  He literally jumped at the chance to be recorded, beginning in the mid-90s, and reminds anyone within shouting distance that he’s the Second Coming of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and Jimmy Reed, all wrapped up in one. “I couldn’t understand what took them so long to find me,” he frequently is wont to say. No shrinking violet, he not too long ago was involved in an altercation in some watering hole of ill repute which left him somewhat crippled (a dislocated hip) and further necessitated his use of a cane (others say a truck jack fell, crushing his leg). “I think I got hit by a chair,” he confessed.  In 1997, he released his first Fat Possum CD, Pee Wee Get My Gun, whose title, considering his propensity for emotional instability, was as telling as that of his first single on the Fat Possum-sponsored For The Love Of Jesus series 45rpms, “I’m Insane,” in which he warns his long-suffering, current girlfriend, Stella, that he’s “going to put his foot up [her] ass,” if he catches her with another man. I’m happy to report that now, well  into his eighties, he’s evidently not as dangerous as in former times and no longer carries a gun in his glove compartment or under the seat of his trusty pickup. But, I might add, it was not through his own choosing that he was denied the possession of these firearms.  


Nevertheless, being duly apprised of this cantankerous, hard-drinking, and womanizing bluesman, I was anxious to meet him when he performed recently at Baltimore’s Ottobar, a big uptown room, almost exclusively reserved for alternative acts. But after I had finally encountered this mythical character, I realized that he was, indeed, appearing in the appropriate setting.

..Unlike the aforementioned Robert “Wolfman” Belfour, nattily attired in suit and tie with a matching fedora, a paragon of sartorial splendor, T-Model Ford, on the other hand, looked as if he had just jumped off a tractor in the cotton fields. Dressed in bib overalls, flannel shirt, and a baseball cap, he was sitting by himself at a round table nursing a big shot glass of Jack Daniel’s whisky. Approaching with trepidation, I politely inquired whether I could take photos and maybe do an interview down the line. Actually, he, to my surprise, was in quite an expansive mood that evening and after giving me an affirmative, asked (with a mischievous twinkle in his eye) if I would kindly care to freshen up his drink. By the time I returned with his libation of choice, he had managed to kidnap my photographer/date, Carol, and continued to hold her rapt attention there the rest of the night (her only reprieve from being such a captive audience came when it was time for his set). But, I had to congratulate him. He not only had stolen my girl for the evening but also received a free drink or two out of the deal. Not bad for this sly fox, who was married at least five times and had fathered (that he knew of) twenty-six children - a total in each category that was obviously a source of pride for him.


Anyway, Robert Belfour went on first. And it was no accident that he preceded his gregarious colleague. The reserved and reticent Belfour is a serious musician, a Delta slide exponent, as well as an expert picker. He is an intense and introspective musician as they come and who, unlike his label mate waiting in the wings, is not used to playing above the ambient noise of a honky-tonk and, in fact, he only attracted the interest of a few hard-core blues fans, especially after following the popular opening act, blues enthusiast Rodney Henry, the splashy lead guitarist of a local indie group, The Glenmont Popes. Henry, by the way, is the subject of a recent  neo-picaresque novel, Ted Nugent Condominium, by yet another native bluesman, Glenn Moomau,  who holds down the fort on weekends at Bertha’s in Fell’s Point in Baltimore with another harmonica player of note, Brett Wilson. I have to admit that, for the most part, the subtleties and nuances of Robert’s individual effort were lost on the twenty-something onlookers who, as usual, were clueless but curious about the two “anomalies” on the slate.


On the other hand, however, when T-Model hit the bandstand (his trusty Peavey Razer named Black Nanny in hand), backed by his able drummer of nearly a decade, Spam (Tommy Lee Miles), he didn’t have any trouble at all getting the crowd’s attention. What he lacked in technical merit on his guitar work, he more than made up for both in energy and volume. And he soon had the appreciative audience rocking. I could sense that they knew just why he was included on tonight’s bill.

T-Model plays in a swinging, breezy, boogie style. It’s blues stripped down to its bare essentials - rhythm and beat, nothing fancy. You shouldn’t expect any protracted solos or much slide work because they won’t be forthcoming. It’s dance music plain and simple, something to tap your foot to and something to put you in the mood for whatever. “Blues is for all kinds of trouble makin,’” is another of his philosophical slogans.
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It was his fifth wife, who bought T-Model at 58 (circa 1980) his first guitar and amplifier, as a parting gift. “Don’t ask me why she give[sic] it to me. I don’t know why either. But I figured I might as well make use of it, since I had it,” he said. Naturally stubborn, he was determined to teach himself and proceeded to woodshed at every opportunity. From private house parties and get-togethers, he slowly graduated to local juke joints. In his van, pulling his little equipment trailer with his name emblazoned on the back, T-Model Ford became a familiar figure playing in an around Greenville, and in fact, after the death of Booba Barnes in April, 1996, he’s probably the last bluesman of any stature to continue to perform on Nelson St, now a desolate strip of crack houses, but formerly one of the entertainment Meccas of the Delta region. By the mid-90s, he was attracting quite a following in the area and his marathon sets of hours at a time without break were becoming the stuff of legend. He could be ignored no more, and Fat Possum came calling.

Besides recording T-Model for the first time, Fat Possum also puts him (as well as other artists in their stable) out on the road, maximizing both his and the label’s exposure. Over the last few years, I saw him in tandem with Robert Belfour at both Fletcher’s in Baltimore (another indie club) and, of course, the Ottobar. Lately, glancing at his itinerary, I’ve noticed that he now travels as part of the Fat Possum Juke Joint Caravan of all stars, including Kenny Brown, Paul “Wine” Jones, and Cedric Burnside (R.L. Burnside’s grandson). You needn’t ask T-Model if he’s making up for lost time if he, at his age, regularly accepts such a brutal tour schedule as the one he is currently undertaking. Beginning May 14, this outfit is in Salt Lake City and will eventually make stops in Idaho, Montana, Alberta, Canada (Calgary and Edmonton), Vancouver, B.C., Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Tucson, and Santa Fe, before returning home at the end of the month. In quite a short time, he has risen through the ranks, opening for Johnny Winter at Luther’s Blues in Madison, WI in 2002 and appearing with another Fat Possum roster giant, R.L. Burnside, at House of the Blues in Chicago the same year. Fat Possum also saw fit to feature T-Model in a video documentary shot live in Austin, TX, You See Me Laughin’.

As far as overseas is concerned, he’s been there and done that, too. “I’ve got a gal in every port,” he claims, even in far-off Switzerland, but he regrets losing the phone number of this newest Swiss conquest.

Well, you’ve got to give him credit. This wild and crazy guy is quite a character, a rugged individual, with a strong zest for life. But now such colorful personages are a dying breed. Oh, there are a few left, like the prancing, headdress-wearing Eddy Clearwater or the wild- maned Bobby Rush, strutting his stuff on the stage. But, for the most part, the younger generation of bluesmen - their replacements - seem die-cast, an assembly line of  Stevie Ray Vaughan wannabes, far removed from the origins of the blues. 

T-Model is an authentic throwback, a last link to the past, and somewhere down the line, road houses and juke joints will become a distant memory. Already, with the influx of casino gambling in Mississippi, homogenization is occurring at an alarmingly rapid rate. Change is coming fast and much of it is not good to these sleepy little towns that both spawned and supported the blues for so long. Call it crude; call it rudimentary, call it country. But you can also call it real blues that T-Model plays. Warts and all, you can either take him or leave him. But enjoy him while you can. Because soon, you won’t have any choice. You can call it all gone. Larry Benicewicz

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