Made in 1944, Jammin' the Blues by Gjon Mili. Feature Lester Young, Illinois Jacquet, and others in a rare film of a 40s jam session. The guitarist was white and was kept in the shadows. Wikipedia says his hands were stained with berry juice for close-ups, but I can't really tell.

This is a picture of bluesman Robert Johnson. It's one of only two known photos of the man.



I found the following film* on YouTube. Someone manipulated the above photo of Johnson to make it look like he's singing his most famous tune "Hellhound on My Trail."

My friends, this is the creepiest thing I have seen in a long, long time.

Shudder.





*Several years ago there was a brief flurry of excitement over an old film of a bluesman purported to be Johnson. It wasn't so, as proven by a poster on the wall behind the guitarist that advertised a film that came out several years after Johnson passed away at the age of 27. Looking for this film, I came across the above nightmare fuel.

On the way home from visiting Grandma and Grandpa Kelly, I took mine to pay tribute at the grave of Howlin' Wolf.

Bo Diddley's heart misses a beat.

Get well, Mr. Bates.

The music for this Terry Gilliam animation used to haunt me. It took years before I found out it was "Banjoreno" by Clifford Hayes and the Jug Blowers. Now I own it, and all is right with the world.

Lincoln Cemetery

Big Bill Broonzy Marvelous guitarist and folk figure.



Big Bill footage.

Johnny Dodds Incredble clarinetist. Hope he's not really immortal, because he's probably frantically scratching at the lid of his coffin.



Warren "Baby" Dodds Brother of the above and great drummer.



Burr Oak Cemetery

Dinah Washington Incredible singer.



And, at last! Took me three visits before I could find Mr. Williams. Here he is.

Two Things

1. Strange juxtapositions—Sonny Boy Williamson and Steven Patrick Morrissey: Together at Last!



The similar poses amused me, But then, I'm easily amused.

2. Comic geek question. If I was born in 1967, that makes me the Silver Age Mr. Dan Kelly, right? So, what was the Golden Age Mr. Dan Kelly like? I imagine he wore a cape and some sort of tin helmet with antennae.

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!

Peanut the Kidnapper

I knew you wouldn't believe me. Well, here, Mr. Doubtypants.

At least now, if Mike and I have a child, we have a name all picked out.

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.

What ho? You can make 78 labels too! I thought xgray was only pulling old Dan's leg.

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.

1. Refused to wake up, but grew weak and relented. Now this decision will always haunt me.

2. More fool I, I went to work.

3. A little work on my article about Black Patti 78 rpm records. I think I finally had that moment of breakthrough where the opening paragraph comes together and flows from my fingertips. Usually, that opening paragraph is altered by the future editor who wants something more "punchy" or less "literary," but for now I'm just happy to get started. I have yet to call any of my interviewees, because I am shy. I also have to work up the courage to deal with the "Who IS this? What!?! I demand the right to read and approve this article before it's published! What! I will not answer that question! For then they will send the fiery assassin-sharkbots after me!" type of person who sounds sane via e-mail, but turns loopy on the phone.

4. Picked up some delicious Persian food for Mike and my dinner. Mmmmm, tasty beef stew with eggplant; chicken kabob, wrapped grape leaves, nummy-nummy.

5. Watched more of The Office. Officially crushing on Pam. I fear the talented Rainn Wilson will be typecast into evil nerd roles for the rest of his life. Actually, that's interesting. I don't think I've seen an evil nerd character anywhere for awhile. What's terrifying is how accurate Wilson's Dwight is. He's not a parody of a threatening nerd figure, he's a perfect portrayal of one. I've met many a Dwight Schrute in my life. One of them was, in fact, a double murderer.



Fact: Wilson tried out for the role of G.O.B. Bluth and is a member of the Bahai faith.

6. A little more work on the book. I'm writing a conversation scene right now, which I like to avoid because, to me, filling a page with he said/then she said quotes for the sake of exposition isn't good writing. I think it needs to be done in this case.

7. Chasin' That Devil's Music refuses to be finished. It's like trying to run a marathon over the rocky surface of Mars. The book is accompanied by a disk that features snippets of interviews with bluesmen like Ishman Bracey. These men, despite often being minimally educated working class dudes, are unsurprisingly good storytellers. I would have rather Wardlow transcribed the conversations. Instead you get a frustrating two pages of three quotes from Blind Skip Whoozit couched by dry factoids regarding band line-ups, travel patterns, and titles and serial numbers. Where's the story part of blues history?

Of course, now I have Mark McKinney's Mississippi Gary's voice going through my head. "THWACKIN' STICKS! SWAMP WITCH!"

WORST TEETH IN BLUES HISTORY: ISHMAN BRACEY

1. Woke up too late. 8:30. Bah.

2. Much laundry done.

3. Determined to revist Acacia Park and Westlawn cemeteries again. More successful this time. Followed by breakfast at Sauganash Restaurant.

4. Grocery shopping with Michael. Entertained by piped-in Barry White. Danced seductively in aisle for wife.

5. Fixed door handle on garage. Installed crossbar on basement door.

6. Mediocre attempt at writing. Attempted to contact someone at Mainspring Press for Black Patti article I've been putting off for weeks. Ordered Alex van der Tuuk's Paramount's Rise and Fall.

7. Balanced checkbook.

8. Helped the wife order her photos from her China trip.

9. Much playing with cats.

10. Delicious pork roast dinner made by wife.

11. Season 4 24 steadily growing stupider. No VP would be as unprepared as the fearful douchebag acting as president. VPs are usually presidential contenders—when they get their shot, they take it. Man, the Constitution hasn't just flown out the window, it's being used for skeet practice.

12. Following Chasin' That Devil's Music, listening to latest blues figure fascination: King Solomon Hill. Semi-anonymous figure who traveled with Blind Lemon Jefferson and only released six haunting sides.

More photos reflecting one of my favorite pasttimes, visiting historical cemeteries. My lovely wife Michael accompanied me as we explored a famous Chicago cemetery on the South Side and three lesser-known cemeteries not so far from where I was born and raised.

From Oak Woods Cemetery. Which is a gorgeous place that's rich with Chicago history. Don't let its South Side location scare you off. If you're lucky, security guard Palmer Barney will be working that day, and will happily point out the more difficult to locate gravesites. He was a true gentleman, and a philosopher besides, offering his thoughts on life's transience. I imagine working in a graveyard is prone to make one rather reflective.

The great Ida B. Wells' grave.



Thanks for the atomic bomb, asshole.



Hey, remember when other people were allowed to be mayor of Chicago? Remember how they sometimes gave a damn about the black neighborhoods and fought against racial divisiveness? He wasn't perfect, but he was better than what we have now.





This rests over one of the dudes who invented Cracker Jack and his nephew, the original Sailor Jack. I don't know if there's a toy surprise inside.



Another bluesman. Junior Wells!



Pretty much I'm just dying to know the story behind this one.





Another hero: Jesse Owens.



A short drive later and we were investigating Restvale Cemetery, probably one of the biggest repositories of blues performers in Chicago.

Muddy Waters



Magic Sam



Guitar maestro Earl Hooker



A quick swing over to Burr Oak, where we found Emmett Till's mother Mamie's grave, but not the grave of Emmett himself.

In a happier turn, we found Willie Dixon's grave after some searching.



Later on we visited Holy Sepulchre, in search of some dead relatives of mine. If you want to be smacked full in the face with Irish Catholic imagery, go here.

Mother Cabrini shrine



Elsewhere, the real Mayor Daley's real corpulent, fetid, 'n fascistic corpse lays here.



A perfect end to a perfect day.

Oh, all right. One more time:




P.S. Hi Gaper's Block folks! In the same grave-visiting vein, here are all the entries for my blues traveling excursion through the South last month. There's a concentration on pre-war bluesmen like Charley Patton, Robert Johnson, and others, with visits to and photos of their graves, intermixed with bitchy digressions and contrarian rants about the blues. Also, barbecue.

http://mrdankelly.livejournal.com/1564818.html#cutid1

http://mrdankelly.livejournal.com/1565882.html#cutid1

http://mrdankelly.livejournal.com/1567207.html#cutid1

http://mrdankelly.livejournal.com/1572051.html#cutid1


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