I GOT A RIGHT
TO SING THE BLUES



Part I: The Early Years
Text and photos by
Larry Benicewicz


I at long last was able to meet one of my all-time blues heroes, Louisiana Red, in Paris last summer at the new upscale, ultramodern, combination office-mall-metro-arena complex of Palais des Congres (Place de la Porte Maillot), located just a long stone's throw down the Avenue de la Grande Armee from the Arc de Triomphe. And as usual it was my French friend, the half-crazed, half-Gypsy, Harley-Davidson-loving talent scout for DixieFrog records, Guy "The American" Fay, who was able to convince the beefy bouncers (in French, "les videurs," those who "empty" the club) that I was an important U.S. blues writer and even succeeded, after much cajoling, in weaseling Carol, my significant other and photographer, and me backstage passes. Such were his considerable powers of persuasion. There, we were not only able to avail ourselves of all the wine and food spread for the performers and their entourages but meet the superstars themselves, up close and personal. All of them, that is, except for the king himself, B.B., who remained sequestered in his royal suite protected by his bodyguards (in French, "les gardes du corps") who denied admittance to all but his trusted advisors .

This concert series was billed "Les Masters De La Guitare" and was greeted with much fanfare and publicity in the City of Lights. In other words, it would be the grandest of spectacles. A comparable three-day festival in the U.S., which would include jazz greats Al Di Meola and John Williams, and a host of Django Reinhardt imitators, including son Babik, would hardly attract such attention, so jaded are the Americans with such a steady diet of extravaganzas. On our side of the pond similar multi-faceted concerts are always looming on the horizon. Pick one. But for the music-starved French, whose rigid tax laws on liquor and entertainment (designed to fund a socialist state) have resulted in shrinking live venues in Paris, this was the event of the year and no expense was spared in its preparation. Tonight's slate (June 26) including local Karim Kook (a paraplegic and transplanted Algerian and stellar guitarist), Popa Chubby (Ted Horowitz, a Bronx-born speed metal bluesman), Louisiana Red, and B.B. King, simply would not be surpassed in magnitude, at least not in the year 2001.

Thus having free access backstage, I made the most of it, seizing the moment. And soon I began schmoozing with all the movers and shakers in the French blues market including Philippe Langlois of DixieFrog (Popa Chubby, Karim Kook, Tino Gonzales, and soon, Kelly Bell) and Jacques Perin of the influential Soul Bag magazine. It's truly amazing how many connections you can make when wearing a silly laminated badge or pass.

But my main purpose, of course, was to finally meet Louisiana Red. When I finally spotted him, he was in the midst of a photo session arranged by some journalists. Incredibly, no one even noticed or cared when I whipped out my little point and shoot and was able to take advantage of all the painstakingly arranged poses to which the venerable bluesman politely acquiesced upon request. As far as photography was concerned, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. I just couldn't miss getting a "professional" portrait. Five minutes backstage and the battle was already won. Now, there was no need to sneak up to the stage and blast off a few quick ones before the security people descended and confiscated my camera.

The first thing that came to mind when I met Louisiana Red was how he resembled an ex-prize fighter. He has a massive upper body, with broad shoulders, and a large, long head whose freckled face is craggy, scarred, and weatherbeaten (due to working the fields and a mid-60s chainsaw accident). And his hands are so huge as to encompass or rather engulf the frets of his steel guitar. I wouldn't want to cross paths with him in a dark alley, I thought to myself, and wondered just how to broach the subject of an interview .

But don't be fooled by his appearance. As I soon found out, he's one of the most humble and gentle souls in blues that I have ever encountered and eminently approchable. After this ordeal with the press, he immediately began welcoming the public and giving free guitar lessons, especially to the youngsters, and all too willingly signed autographs, seemingly grateful for the attention. And he seemed particularly fascinated by me, who was able to recall a handful of singles he recorded a half-century ago. So, fortunately for me the tete-a-tete was on, backstage, and almost for the remainder of the evening.

But as his story unfolded, I would not have blamed him for being the most bitter of men, having survived the truly tragic and hardscrabble life that fate had dealt (and still deals him) and internalizing it all. It seemed that at every turn in the road there was a significant death in the family, or physical abuse, or an eviction when the rent could not be paid. Only a true bluesman could pull off such a catharsis in his playing and singing which could transform all this lifelong psychic and physical pain and permit him to emerge with such a kind, forgiving, and philosophical disposition.

For example, how about tonight for being somewhat resentful? This blues giant was practically preempted by the young turks. And respectively both Karim Kook, a local favorite, and Popa Chubby actually followed Red onto the stage. Now, granted, the Popa is big in France, selling perhaps 50,000 units a CD, but can he be considered, by any stretch of the imagination, a blues legend the caliber of Louisiana Red? Moreover, when Red did go on first, he was only accorded mere warm-up of 20 minutes, whereas each exemplar of the younger generation received at least double that amount of time to strut their stuff. And to add insult to injury, he had to wait patiently for two hours or so, just like the rest of us hoi polloi, outside of B.B. King's dressing room in order to get a get a glimpse of the headliner, who, fashionably late and surrounded by his goon squad, finally issued forth, and perfunctorily acknowledged his subjects, including Red, with a nod as he ambled on down the corridor toward the stage. "Pas de photographies [no photos]!" shouted his hired thugs as they pushed the cameras and video equipment back into the faces of the assembled media.

No one will argue that B.B. King is a superstar, with a prodigious catalogue of blues hits to his name. But what about a bluesman who commenced his career a mere three years later and has a slew of albums to his name? And what about an artist whose autobiography, Louisiana Red: Nobody's Child (with the help of Michael Franks of Earwig records), will soon be published? "I guess all my life it's been a matter of respect," said Red when queried about this evening's overall snub. But it's not for the lack of trying, seemingly against all odds, that he's not quite yet a household name in blues circles, uttered in the same breath as a Little Milton, or B.B. King, or Bobby Blue Bland.

It's true that one could propose that the reason he hasn't quite hit the big time is that he has chosen to live abroad (in Hannover, Germany) where opportunities to perform are more plentiful and perhaps where he feels more appreciated. And he's far from being the only expatriate. Pianists like Champion Jack Dupree (Hannover) and Memphis Slim (Paris) and guitarist Luther Allison (Paris) may be gone, but they have been replaced by Guitar Crusher (Sidney Selby), Sherman Robertson, and Big Jay McNeely. Even lesser-known bluesmen like harp player Doug Jay (and the Blue Jays) have abandoned the U.S. in order to eke out a living in Germany. To his credit, whenever possible, Red has revisited the States and put in a cameo at a blues festival, which should be enough to keep his name "out there," as they say.

But a more plausible explanation for his lack of notoriety or renown for such a talented musician is probably just plain bad luck and trouble. And as the song goes, he's had his share. Reader be the judge.



Louisiana Red was born Iverson Minter in Bessemer (near Birmingham), AL, March 23, 1936. A mere seven days later his mother died of pneumonia and he was left an orphan at three when his father was lynched by the Ku Klux Klan. His grandmother, Harriet Dorsey, who lived in Vicksburg, MS, fetched him not long after and he spent his formative years there and learned a bit about the blues as both his grandparents were musicians. But even this sojourn was not without tragedy. "My grandfather was poisoned on a piece of meat. I think it was a girlfriend thing," he said. In his early teens, he went to live with his aunt and uncle in Canonsburg, PA, not far from Pittsburgh, an arrangement that proved to be disastrous. "I was getting it from two sides. At school, my principal had this paddle. It must have been an inch thick. He left me black and blue. But at home, it wasn't much better, as my uncle also began beating me up," he confessed. Declared a recalcitrant youth, he was institutionalized in a home for kids without parents, "home condition children," was the expression back then.

But soon it was grandmother again to the rescue who whisked him away to Watsonville, CA, near Monterey Bay, half-way between Salinas and Santa Cruz. There he lived with his uncle, Nathaniel Colvin, an ex-Navy man and aunt Lucille, as well as his beloved grandmother. For a while, the change of scenery worked wonders on the young man, but he soon "backslided." "You know how it is being a teen in California. You just had to be part of a gang. Suffice it to say that I fell in with the wrong people and made some mistakes. I eventually was hauled before a magistrate. He pretty much made it clear that I had a choice--to leave California or suffer the consequences," said Red.

Moving back with his grandmother to the Pittsburgh area in the late 40s proved crucial in his musical development. And he became particularly influenced by a couple of street or "back porch" musicians that he would encounter almost every day serenading the passers-by with down home blues. The first was Crit Walters (also known as Boy B.) who owned a Stella guitar and played with a metal slide and also a Mr. Cash. "After I heard these gentleman, I was hooked. Then I knew what I wanted to do the rest of my life," said Red. A half-brother further piqued his interest in the blues by sharing his 78 rpms which he purchased after hearing them broadcast over WLAC.

At long last, Louisiana Red was in the right place at the right time. Afro-American music, race records, for the first time were being played over the airwaves thanks to pioneering stations such as WLAC, a clear channel 50,000 watt juggernaut, whose beam on any night could encompass a good half of the nation. And Pittsburgh was well within its range. Renegade disk jockeys like Herman Grizzard, Gene Nobles, Bill "Hoss" Allen, and John R. (Richbourg) were unfettered by program directors and had no playlists. They played what they loved--blues and R&B. Sponsored by Randy Wood of Dot records in nearby Gallatin, TN, who shipped them mail order out of his Randy's Record Mart and Ernie Young (of Nashboro records, including Excello) who supplied the same service at Ernie's Records in Nashville, WLAC probably singlehandedly put R&B on the map and into the nation's consciousness in the late 40s and early 50s before all the Johnny-come-latelys finally caught on, perceiving how viable a market this genre of music really could be.

I knew that Red really listened to these records because he could flawlessly recite all the Aristocrat records (the forerunner of Chess) of Muddy Waters in their proper sequence. "Yeah, we had his first big hit. That's the one that did it for me -- 'I Can't Be Satisfied' and 'Feel Like Goin' Home.' In fact me and my brother got in a serious fight after I stole his copy of 'Rollin' and Tumblin'," said Red with a hearty laugh.

"I thought that that came out on Chess," I said.

"No, that would be 'Rollin' Stone [Chess 1426],' said Red, who was right on the money and who, by the way, still has these treasured autographed keepsakes in his possession. "You can bet that I'll never part with them," he added.

From the getgo, he was determined to finally meet the author of the masterpieces, but it would not be a direct route. First there was a matter of a brief incarceration in Thornhill Industrial Training School For Boys, a quasi-reformatory, in Warrendale, PA. "It wasn't really all that bad an experience because I learned some skills--farming, carpentry, a little repair work--which served me in good stead later in life. But first and foremost, I was able to reflect on my condition and it matured me," he confessed.

By the early 50s in Pittsburgh, station KDKA had some R&B shows as well hosted by disk jockeys Porky Chadwick and Bill Powell. With friend Orville Whitney, Red formed a three-piece street band composed of washboard, washtub bass, and bottleneck guitar. "We'd play out on the street for pennies. Maybe, on a good night we got five dollars," said Red. Eventually, he was doing a live broadcast on Powell's program and was invited one night by the famous record spinner to perform at a teen hop. "Well, my music did not go over real well with the crowd. I guess they were looking for some jump or swing music," he said. Red did later cut a crude acetate at the same KDKA which would open a door for him at Chess records.

In 1952, not yet 16, but emboldened by his proficiency with the guitar (then a Sears & Roebuck Silvertone with three pickups) and with a fresh demo in his hand, he decided on a whim to call Scott Cameron, then Muddy Waters' agent. "He was really hopping mad about being awakened at six in the morning. I forgot that Pittsburgh was in the Eastern Zone," he said. Nevertheless, Phil Chess must have been impressed with what he heard because he soon summoned the teenager to Chicago. Awestruck, he showed up at the famed Aristocrat facility at 5249 S. Cottage Grove Avenue. "I was worried because I had no place to stay for the night. But Mr. Leonard Chess told me that Muddy would take care of me," he added.

At the time, Muddy Waters was riding high on the R&B charts with "She Moves Me (Chess 1490)" and the youngster actually got to see his idol appear and then sat in with him at the notorious speakeasy of Chess records, the Club Zanzibar at 13th and Ashland, a block away from two more of bluesdom's storied Southside hot spots--the Tay May at 1400 W. Roosevelt and VI's Lounge at 14th and Ashland. "He must have thought I was a pest because I kept asking him how he got that sound out of that slide. And he told me he used a sawed-off, 3/4 inch, chrome-plated water pipe. Jimmy Dawkins later said that Earl Hooker used the same apparatus on his double-necked guitar," said Red. And it would be safe to say over the course of their relationship, that Red picked up more than a just a few pointers from the master, who suggested his first stage name--Rocky Fuller (like Rockefeller).

Thirty years later, just before his death in 1983 when Red finally again caught up to his teacher, Muddy remembered him well. "Renee [his granddaughter], I'd like to introduce you to Rocky, he's the one that, way back when, I showed how to play the slide," said the legendary Delta bluesman.

Yes, it was quite a thrill to hang out with all the future blues hall of famers including Muddy, Little Walter (Marion Walter Jacobs (from whom he absorbed a few harp licks), bassist Willie Dixon, pianist Henry Gray, drummer Odie Payne, and guitarists Jimmy Rogers (James A. Lane) and Robert Nighthawk (Robert Lee McCollum), many of whom were just beginning their illustrious careers during blues' golden age. "I later chose to play a Dano Electric guitar just like Nighthawk. In fact, it was manufactured in Neptune, PA," said Red, recalling these times wistfully.

But perhaps Red was just too young and too inexperienced to become a fixture on the highly competitive Windy City blues scene. The Chess brothers declined to issue the remastered Pittsburgh demo and instead invited him, as Rocky Fuller, to record both solo and with Muddy's band (including Little Walter and Jimmy Rogers) on March 13, 1952, a session which yielded ten tracks and one single, a 78 rpm on their brand-new Checker (753) subsidiary, "Soon One Morning" bw "Come On Baby, Now," tunes which failed to captivate the imagination of the buying public. But, always the optimist, Red was not going to let this first disappointment deter him from another attempt to produce a winner.

In 1953, General Motors, because of Korean War and the subsequent military draft and desperate for warm bodies in the assembly plants in Michigan, began looking for recruits in the Pittsburgh area. Although barely seventeen, Red, admittedly "big for his age," was chosen, put on the bus, and shipped off to Oldsmobile, headquartered in Lansing due west of Detroit. And it wasn't long before the young Louisiana Red began taking excursions to the big city and visiting local blues shrines that lined Hastings Street, including Henry's Swing Club (made immortal by John Lee Hooker), Swann's Paradise Bar, the Apex Club, Club Basin, Club Caribe, Jake's, Mar's Bar, Wilson's (purportedly the longest bar in the world), Porter Reed's Music Bar, the Blue Heaven, the Corner Bar, the Silver Grill, and the infamous Hung-One Ranch and Three Star Bar. Noted British blues historian Paul Oliver writes that Hastings Street of that era was a "string of low-level buildings festooned with with cables and telephone wires, where the loan sharks and dry cleaners, drug stores, and chicken shacks rubbed shoulders with the clubs." It was a rough and tumble area of "bad joints" and not for the faint of heart. Detroit blues in general was a perfect fit for this smoldering, shoot 'em up atmosphere, a real-life Wild West show, where all the bartenders and half the patrons probably packed pistols.

Unlike its neighbor to the west, Chicago, Detroit's (settled later by the immigration of Southern blacks) brand of blues was much less sophisticated and refined. In fact, it was the most raw form of urban blues in the nation, one degree removed from the cotton fields. Often the night's entertainment would consist of a one-man show like John Lee Hooker who worked by day as a janitor for Comco Steel. Or it might be Doctor Isaiah Ross, an automaker by day in Flint, who, unaccompanied, played guitar, harmonica, kazoo, and bass drum, the latter contraption (fotdella) also favored by his late contemporary in and around the San Francisco Bay area, Jesse "Lone Cat" Fuller. Coarse grained in style or not, the Motown of that period could boast of a whole array of transplanted Southern bluesmen, including Eddie Burns, Eddie Kirkland, Baby Boy Warren, Bobo Jenkins, One String Sam (Wilson), and Washboard Willie (William Paden Hensley), who could rival in sheer numbers any all-star cast that the Windy City's blues community could muster. And at Louisiana Red's embryonic stage of evolution as a musician, this situation in Detroit suited him perfectly.

"I remember going to see John Lee Hooker. At the time, he was living on Hastings and Mack Ave and playing a Gibson Les Paul with a gold top. But when I got to the club, I found out that he had gone out on tour down South with Eddie Kirkland," said Red. But during the early 50s, it was amazing that anyone could see Hooker on his own turf. He was that hot of an act. And when he wasn't on the road he probably spent the remainder of his time in sessions, recording under a plethora of aliases for nearly every indie R&B label--John Lee Booker (Chess), John Lee Cooker (King), The Boogie Man (Acorn), Texas Slim (also King), Johnny Williams (Gotham), Delta John (Regent), John L. Booker (Chance), Johnny Lee (Deluxe), and Birmingham Sam & His Magic Guitar (Savoy).

The club in question was the Harlem Inn at Congress and Mount Elliott Avenues in Detroit, another "happening neighborhood," outside of Hastings St. Although Red didn't find the gifted Clarksdale native, he did discover house musicians there like harp ace Jesse Williams and pianist Johnny Walters. And it wasn't long before he, now as Playboy Fuller, was back in the studio now with this duo taping another single, "Gonna Play My Guitar" bw "Sugar Cane Highway." Released as Fuller #171, it, too, failed to generate any sales, probably due to the fact that a big label wasn't backing it with distributorship nor publicity. However, it remains today a most sought-after collector's item, being so rare a piece that it can command, in mint condition, over a thousand dollars.

Although the trips to recording facilities were not panning out, Louisiana Red, similarly to his Chicago experience, was learning a great deal and making valuable friendships, especially with Eddie Burns, Eddie Kirkland, and the great John Lee Hooker, himself, with whom he recorded as Rockin' Red during his third Detroit session--"Boogie Woogie All Night Long," which was finally released on an equally hard to find Crown LP (5232).

But first would come an encounter with Joe Von Battle with whom anyone of any import in Detroit would record. Joe had a record store and a recording studio on Hastings Street, right in the thick of things and where the action was, so to speak, and even operated his own label, JVB (and later VON), which he could lease to other larger independents if he were to create a hit which was too big to handle himself. It would be just a matter of time before either Red would come his way or vice versa. "I was introduced to Joe through his sister," said Red, who was slowly forging a reputation there. In 1953, Joe recorded Red's "Early Evening Blues," but for some reason it was never issued.

When asked about this puzzle, Red quickly volunteered an answer. "Bobby Robinson had come to Detroit and was looking for someone who could imitate Elmore James. And since I was doing a pretty good job of it with my slide work, he started to take an interest in me. He pretty much stole me away from Joe. In fact, he took me to New York, his home base, and had me record 'Letter To Elmore James' for his Red Robin label," responded Red.

Black record producer Bobby Robinson indeed was running Red Robin at the time and did have a few bluesmen on this mainly doo-whop label, including Champion Jack Dupree, Allen Bunn (later Tarheel Slim), and Sandra Grimes. But there was not a trace of Louisiana Red or any of his pseudonyms. Then, I checked all his subsequent labels, including Whirlin' Disk, Fire, Fury, Everlast, and Enjoy, which included some outstanding blues figures like Wilbert "Kansas City" Harrison, Buster "Fannie Mae" Brown, Lee "Ya Ya" Dorsey, Bobby "Is There Something On Your Mind" Marchan, and even Elmore James on the latter label, right before his untimely death at 45 in 1963. But, again, there was no mention in any discography of such a recording.

Thanks to Paul Winley of Harptones fame, I was able to track down the spry and very lucid octogenarian, Bobby Robinson, recently and was pleased to find that he was still the proud owner of a record store, Bobby's Happy House, up in Harlem at 125th St and 8th Ave., just around the corner from its original location which dated from the 50s. And I found it very eerie to be talking to such a ghost from the past. "Larry, all I can say is that I did know Joe and had been out to Detroit to see him. I did a lot of recording back then, as you know, and a much of it is in the can. Although I vaguely remember Louisiana Red, I can't say for sure if he's in my tape inventories. Right now, I should be reviewing what I have on hand," answered the longtime record entrepreneur.

As it turned out, the Bobby Robinson episode was a moot point, since there was no way Louisiana Red was going to be able to follow up on the demo. As luck would have it, the Korean War was escalating and he at 17 was a prime candidate for the draft. Like in the words of the rock and roll song, a thinly disguised biography of Elvis Presley, "All American Boy," by Bill Parsons (later Bobby Bare), "Uncle Sam said,'Here I am'."
Larry Benicewicz

Next: Part II: Going To New York