Jay Mayo "Ink" Williams being interviewed on local television. It's nice to see him as a dapper old gent. Every other picture of the man that I've seen comes from his college days.

Learning that two men who interviewed the subject of your research died within a year or so of each other AND a year before you started research. Also, discovering their Sunday morning talk show is very likely not preserved on videotape anywhere, because, hey, who'd ever want to watch an historically important Sunday morning TV show about black history again?

This is the Overton Hygienic Building, on 36th Street. Part of a collection of buildings marking off the remaining part of Chicago known as Black Metropolis/Bronzeville District. I stopped by the Overton a week ago while driving back from U of C, where I visited their Jazz Archive to hear an interview with my ongoing obsession, record producer J. Mayo Williams. Williams had an office in the building, you see. I'm not sure which one. I'll have to recheck my research binder, but my impression is that a lot of jazz and blues greats passed through those doors, on their way to see Mayo Williams. I'm pretty sure that I read about people like Blind Blake, Big Bill Broonzy, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Ma Rainey, and many others turning up at Williams' office to audition. I don't know for sure about that, because Williams was considered a bit stand-offish by his talent. They said he was acting "dicty,"(i.e., high and mighty, as if his skin wasn't as black as theirs). Williams said he needed to keep them at arm's length, else he'd be inundated with requests for money and auditions for the friends of the friends of the talent. Who can say?

An interesting blog entry from someone at work on restoring the Overton. Actually, it's a complete gutting, but better that than demolishing it, I guess. It's certainly better than leaving it in its "flophouse" state. Nice looking building too. Took me a while to get down there, but I'm glad I finally had the opportunity.

Babies eat time. I'll try to catch everyone up on my activities because I know you've been worried.

Friday I went to the Regenstein Library at U of C to visit the John Steiner collection of jazz memorabilia. The archivist, Deborah Gillaspie, was quite accommodating and set me up with a CD transcription of an interview Steiner did with gospel legend Thomas Dorsey and, the subject of my ongoing research project, Jay Mayo Williams. Gillaspie told me I was the first person to hear the tape since Steiner recorded it, which added a archaeological frisson to the proceedings (What do you see, Howard Carter? "Wonderful things!!!"). I've read interview transcriptions, I've seen photos, and I've stood on the man's grave, but this is the first time I heard Williams' voice. It is not exaggerating things to say that he finally came alive for me.

Williams must have been in his late 70s when the interview was conducted, his voice cracked and faded with age, but his mind still sharp. Regrettably, it wasn't an interview about him specifically; more of a typical gathering of minutae on band personnel. Which is important, but it seems like a generation of jazz historians approached the music as if they were trading baseball cards. "Who played cornet?" "Oh, that was Jimmy 'Slats' Pantaloons. Jimmy liked to eat swiss cheese before a show and..." "All right, who played second cornet?" And so on. Steiner let Dorsey and Williams talk, but as so often happens when I hear an interview from decades ago (1972 in this case) it becomes a frustrating experience. "Ask him about the first time he recorded Blind Lemon Jefferson and Blind Blake, man!" I want to shout. There were one or two quotable bits about Jelly Roll Morton ("a braggart") and the way mice used to chew up the old 78 wax masters en route to the pressing plant at least. Still, it was good to hear his voice at last.

Yesterday I received a big envelope filled with photocopies of all the information on Black Patti and Jay Mayo Williams the Indiana Historical Society has on file. The materials came from the larger John Mackenzie collection. Mackenzie, who died a number of years ago, was a 78 collector and jazz historian, active throughout the mid part of the last century.

He was lucky enough to track down Williams and others not only while they were still alive but long before they entered the years of Swiss cheese memory. Grand though this was, Mackenzie, like many collectors, was a hobbyist, not a journalist. He had the right idea, but he asked the wrong questions, and didn't learn how to gently press for facts. Personally, I like to let my subjects tell me their story unimpeded. I'll ask one question and let the person babble for as long as they like, steering the conversation only when they begin to talk about how uncomfortable their shoes are or their favorite kind of sandwich (unless, of course, these are relevant subjects). Then I ask follow-up questions. The trick is not treating the interview like it's a conversation. You need to confirm and corroborate what they're saying, all the while treating them with a measure of respect. I consider my subjects to be living books.

Mackenzie's interviews with Mayo Williams are frustratingly brief. Even worse, the record shows a list of questions he never even asked about Black Patti recording artists and more. Of course, Mackenzie was working in the days before e-mail, plug-in digital recorders, and clear long-distance communications, so it's pretty wondrous what he managed to turn up. I'm also simpatico with the frustration he must have felt in dealing with some of his sources. In general, people want to help the writer, but there's always a segment of folks with information who either don't know anything (or think they don't) or simply don't care. Many a piece of priceless historical data has been lost because a great-grandson decided to clear the attic of all those worthless business records, photographs, and journals. The real bastards are the ones who not only don't want to take the time to look, they won't let the researcher look either. I read about one labor-of-love researcher who was willing to pore over thousands of photographic negatives for days on end, just to find a single photo... but the guy in charge, eh, he didn't really feel like opening that day... nah, come back tomorrow... you know, he doesn't really feel comfortable with you looking around like that... nah, forget it, he's just going to chuck it all anyway... nah, you can't have the old photos. Bastards.

Another fun bit of zeitgeist: all of Mackenzie's transcripts are typewritten and riddled with errors. Not only errors, but line after line of X'd out words and sentences. Nowadays, with spell check, any kid can turn out a halfway decent looking manuscript. The white-out, eraser marks, and X's were what Sr. Pauline, my penmanship teacher, used to sarcastically call "beauty marks."

More on this as it develops.

I just got off the phone with Dave Waldman, a local blues harmonica player and scholar. I e-mailed Dave (who I know through Mike and Rebecca, who were kinda west side blues groupies back in the early 90s) to see if he had ever met Mayo Williams. Alas, no. But that didn't mean he didn't have a bevy of facts to share and people I should contact. Then we chatted about blues, record collectors, and such. He's a nice fellow.

Found an interview with Dave here. I have to admit I love the gee-whillikers shots of him with all those old blues guys. Make no mistake though, Dave is a bang-up blues harp player.

He's probably reading this too. Everyone say hi to Dave. Hi, Dave!

If I haven't made it clear, my latest project is a piece on Black Patti Records—an extremely minor Chicago African-American record label that existed for only nine months in 1927 before folding; the rarest of the rare among 78s, any Black Patti record, even the crappiest one in poor condition, will probably garner you a grand on eBay. Don't hold your breath about finding one in grandma's attic. I'm especially interested in writing about Black Patti's manager, Jay Mayo Williams, a black music impresario who was also a football player way back when. As with most of my projects, I'm completely absorbed in the subject, with a passion to discover this or that bit of obscure knowledge or any living person who might have interacted with Mr. Williams. It's quite exciting, though I'm covering slightly tread territory, and rather than simply banging out 6,000 words, I should scribe a booklet instead. Maybe a chapbook. Wheeee!

Anyway, I'm thrilled because I found a local collector who has a Black Patti record (it's one of the good ones too, and it'll only cost you five grand if you want it). He's into an interview. I'm hoping he consents to doing it in person, because I'd love to finally SEE a Black Patti in person.

Whenever I settle upon a subject that nobody seems to care about or that's been only passingly researched or reported upon, why is it that when I'm about three months into research I discover some other fucking guy has been working on a documentary about the same subject for the past year? I contacted the library at Monmouth, IL about Mayo Williams (that's his hometown), and was informed by the librarian that some guy named Erick Light was already there last summer, doing extensive research. He probably has PBS money too, dammit, and doesn't have a boss who's picky about extended vacations.

I'm not discouraged, just annoyed. It reminds me of a book I read recently. If you haven't read Paul Auster's The Book of Illusions, you should. Part of the plot involves the author's rediscovery of a mythical silent film comedian named Hector Mann. The author's life has recently sailed straight to hell (his wife and sons die in a plane crash, he ends up drinking too much, he alienates his friends, and so on), but after seeing a Mann comedy and laughing for the first time in years, he decides to write a book about him, which pulls him out of his funk. I don't want to reveal too much, but it turns out someone else is also writing about Mann. Drama ensues.

My point is that I understand and appreciate that other people care about these things and want to promote them to the rest of the world too, but I'm beginning to think I'll need to invent my own Hector Mann to write about if I ever want to make a subject all my own. I want to explore an undiscovered country without suddenly realizing that Amundsen got there already. Meanwhile I'm freezing to death on a glacier, gnawing my pemmican-flavored ice bar.

I also fear potential repercussions if the other person isn't like, say, Floyd Webb (who's filming a Count Dante documentary and who I interviewed after a few month's worth of my own research), and doesn't want to share info or, worse, start accusing me of stepping on his or her toes. In addition, while I was happy as heck to help Floyd, but sometimes it's no fun to keep playing the Boswell role.

I'll write the damn thing, but shucks.

Fret.

Finally talked to Bob Koester of Delmark Records and Jazz Record Mart about Black Patti records and Jay Mayo Williams. What a nice fellow. It's a trip to hear someone talk about hanging out with blues and jazz musicians who seem more like folk heroes than regular people. I asked if we could talk at length again sometime, and he said that would be fine. I have a book idea in mind, and when I shared it with Tim Samuelson (kind of a folk hero himself, if you're into Chicago history and architecture) he said, "You know, I always hoped someone would cover that subject."

Yes, I do require constant positive reinforcement. Whinge.

Also, note to self: Try really, really hard not to erase 20 minutes of an interview, dumbass. Fortunately, Mr. Koester was amenable to repeating himself. True devotees WANT to tell the great stories again and again. Thank God.

So, a year ago I was gung-ho about writing a book about 78 collectors. Yet, the more I dug, the more I discovered that these guys were already pretty well covered. In some cases—and Lord knows I shouldn't be one to judge—the collectors come across as rather unpleasant and back-biting individuals, obsessed with the minutiae of recording history without paying attention to the men and women behind it (or maybe they were just bad when it came to writing about emotions and personalities; or maybe they were just bad writers). I was not, let us say, inspired to subject myself to that sort of attitude. Still, one or two of the collectors that I contacted were nice enough and interested in talking. I didn't follow up on any interviews once I decided that the book wouldn't hold my interest and, indeed, might be painful to write.

One of the good ones was Bob Koester, who runs Jazz Record Mart in Chicago. It took a while, but Mr. Koester answered my e-mail and told me to stop by on certain days of the week if I wanted to talk. Since I visit the store pretty regularly, the following week I was stopping by to browse and buy some new tunes. Koester was there, working, so I thought I'd approach him and introduce myself. He was gruff but friendly and ready to go on with the interview then and there, but I explained that I didn't have my tape recorder and asked for a rain check. He was fine with that. Of course, the project evaporated and I never followed up on the interview.

Now I'm working on this Black Patti piece, and I figured he'd be a good guy to talk to. I've been dragging my heels because (1) I'm pretty shy when it comes to interviews and (2) I've been waiting for my digital recorder to arrive.

Anyway.

Today I stopped by Jazz Record Mart, and while browsing I picked up a book about the blues. I checked the index to see if there was any mention of Mayo Williams (the manager at Black Patti). Only two references, but when I flipped to them I came across a passage about Williams recommending that this female blues artist approach—ta dah—Bob Koester about recording. Koester has been involved in blues and jazz since the 50s or earlier. In fact, he's listed as a major player in the back of Gayle Dean Wardlow's book Chasin' That Devil's Music.

So, I better get off my ass and see if he'll still agree to an interview, eh? Especially since the guy is 75.

Bad writer.

One of the cool things about having a wife who's a teacher... She has access to all sorts of online libraries, including back issues of the Chicago Defender... which ran Black Patti ads. I've seen these ads run in 78 Quarterly, but not this large or sharp.

1. More research on the Black Patti company and Mayo Williams in particular. I've learned that while Black Patti had a few unique recordings, most were culled from the Gennett catalog. They also seem to largely charm collectors mostly for their rarity (only a few copies of each record still exist, and a few have yet to be found), and their very attractive peacock cover art (later appropriated by Yazoo Records). As pointed out by ortho_bob, the Black Patti story always veers toward their rarity and Joe Bussard's collection. For me (and as explored by researcher Stephen Calt in 78 Quarterly), the real story is Mayo Williams. What a fascinating man.

2. Finished staining a shadow box. Nope, not one of mine. I bought it at Pearl. I'll probably put it in the kitchen, and we can store our salt and pepper shakers there.

3. This has been a fairly boring week. I hope the weekend is a little more interesting. Indian food tonight!

1. Gave up on the Why I Love the Internet thing once I sensed I was about to repeat myself after only 15 entries. Well, I love the Internet, and that's that.

2. Did some work on the Black Patti article. I think I'll pitch it to the Chicago Journal, though it's a little out of their range. Or maybe I can try the Reader. Jay Mayo "Ink" Williams was a very interesting man with a long career in music and football, of all things.

3. Ordered an Olympus digital recorder for interviews. So long magnetic tape.

4. Still watching Bleak House (Only an hour a night. No marathon TV sessions, please.. Gillian Anderson deserves some sort of award for Most Distant and Beautiful-Looking Actress in a BBC Period Television Series.

5. Started Koji Suzuki's Dark Water. This shouldn't take long. Love that J-horror.

1. A little more writing of the novel. Very little.

2. Started digging out my 78 Quarterly magazines to find more info on Black Patti records and J. Mayo Williams in particular. It's bothersome to me that there's very little original research I can do about this subject. Surely, I'll visit the Chicago Historical Society soon, but their archives were already pored over by sundry blues mafia dudes and assorted Europeans over the past 40 years. I'm excited about looking through back issues of the Chicago Defender. Always an interesting experience. Alex van der Tuuk (whose book on Paramount Records just arrived in my mailbox) even sounds a bit adamant in the introduction, stressing how he did his damndest not to use too much of the research of Stephen Calt and... I can't remember the other guy's name... into the rise and fall of Paramount. Van der Tuuk agreed to an interview by e-mail, and he seems accommodating enough. I'm just sensitive to the thought that my subjects might get miffed that they did all the work and now I come along and tap the maple tree of their knowledge. Which is silly of me, I know.

3. I'm feeling cabin feverish. I need another little trip somewhere in the city. I'm also planning to take a short weekend trip to Providence, RI, this year, so I can pay tribute at H.P. Lovecraft's grave. Then I think I'll have fulfilled most of my geekish boyhood dreams. Providence! Wow! The Big City!

4. Gaper's Block is looking for contributors. I think I'll see if they're interested. I think I could crank out five short bits a week; I did it for memepool all the time. Chicagoans, let me know if there's anything interesting coming up, especially on the South and West sides (they're interested in covering these areas a bit more—my guess is most of their contributors are hipster honkies, like me). If they accept my contributions I won't get paid, by the way, so don't think I'm profiting from the sweat of your brow.

5. Bleak House arrived from Netflix. Gillian Anderson really should eat something. (see icon)

6. Finished Chasin' That Devil Music.