I’ll be the first to admit, I’m the “MxM Man,” that is, mnemonics
and mentorship. Those are my motherships to creativity. Now,
in July of 1975, my obsession with channeling B.B. King on
vocals and guitar led me down a uniquely venturesome path.
Having apprenticed since June 1972 on the Smithsonian Mall
for the Folklife Festival, by this time (fourth year of humping
ice and changing music cassettes), I was no richer monetarily
but a Midas of blues experience. Besides, Mr. Ralph Rinzker,
the festival head honcho, had “spotted” my talent for helping
southern blues folk around D.C.
This social knack hit a high plateau in ‘75, for I was now
a fully vested D.C. driver. My culture-craving parents had
wisely (I thought!) handed me the keys to their 1972 forest
green and black vinyl-top Chevy Impala with “four-barrel”
390 horsepower under the hood.
My “protectors” in the Chicago blues cabal had been the
Williams clan. There were five, rangy, pompadoured brothers,
up from the delta of Greenwood, Miss., who had firmly planted
their music roots in the steel and concrete of the Windy City.
“Boy! You got a bad ride. Let’s drive around,” growled Lefty
Dizz (born Walter Williams), the eldest and most extroverted
of the aforementioned fratelli.
His brother Woody, next in line, had a sweet but rasping tenor
and specialized in Wilson Pickett and Sam Cooke’s songbook.
Other siblings included “Greedy Man,” who pounded any piano
he could get a hold of with both hands.
Lefty had no problem bringing “company” in the form of
affluent young Chevy Chase debutantes, but one night he
dismissed all his brothers and new admirers and announced
“We’re hittin’ the Harold. The proprietor wants me to do a set
or two…” Herein it’s relevant for me to explain Lefty was a
three ring circus of his own design.
Not only did he play a clean rhythm on his scarred Telecaster
(including trips to Africa and Europe with Junior Wells and
Buddy Guy), but his waves framed his face like Hendrix, and
he purred a vocal just like Albert King! The crowd wouldn’t
let him go ‘til after midnight. Lefty went off-mic repeatedly,
making them weep particularly on “Perschal Manager…”
Lefty and I slid out of the Childe Harold, he bought a pint
of his favorite Old Grand-Dad at the all night liquor shop off
Dupont Circle. Finally, my permissive 22-year old self let Lefty
drive the Chevy back to the Hotel Brighton up the hill. “Stop,
John,” the meister commanded. “I have to meditate.” At dawn,
Lefty opened the side door, nodded silently, and disappeared
into the hotel. Needless to say, I ran off six months later and
temporarily joined Lefty’s southside Chicago circus.
A word of clarification: with my Mom and Dad’s blessing,
I roomed on South Greenwood, hosted by Koko Taylor’s
drummer Vincent, got baptized in olive oil at his mother’s
church, and helped Lefty emcee at the Chocker Board Lounge
on South 43rd Street (with “Sleigh Ride” by Lloyd Glenn on
the house juke box).
P.S. My Japanese-made Teisco solid body guitar was never
far from my side.
