From Out In The Maxwell Street Night –With Blues Label Chess Records In Mind

 

 

 

“I’m going to get me one of those big old pink Cadillacs just like Muddy, although if someone asked, if truth be told I’m not sure Muddy had a such car but he could afford one which was the same thing and it ain’t like they only made one like that so I am going to get me a big old pink Cadillac, yeah” thought Sidewalk Sam as he entered the front door of hallowed Chess Records on South Michigan Avenue in that year of our lord 1961 looking to make a name for himself in the recording world, in the music world, and get the hell out of two-bit Maxwell Street.

[Sidewalk’s birth name Leroy Collins, Miss Collins’ boy, white and black alike, white up at Mister Jackson’s rope-making factory where Miss Collins worked six days a week, half a day on Saturday and black in Negro-town down in the lowlands at the edge of town where was Leroy was born and had come of age without incurring Mister Jackson’s wrath, is what they usually called him down around Clarksville in Mississippi, down in Mister James Crow’s country. That was before he skedaddled north, north following the North Star just like his forbears in slavery times when black folk headed to freedom whatever way they could. Leroy, Sidewalk lately now that he was in north country, knew it was just a matter of time before Mister Jackson, or worse, Mister Jackson’s Mister James Crow laws snagged him up and sent him over to the sweated fields of Parchman’s Farm and while he might be Miss Collin’s boy, might not rightly know who or where his father was, he knew he had to get out of the Delta and fast once he began to seem a little too uppity around town. So one night he headed north, headed with a bindle, some smokes and some dreams.]

 “And get myself some fine threads, nice silky suits, half a dozen if I felt like it in six different colors would about do and wouldn’t I be a sight, white cotton dress shirts, as if to mock the cotton that drove Clarksville’s economy,  with double cuffs and links, a drawer full, shoes, finest leathers to die for and hats, hats for every occasion,” he continued as he shut the door behind him. Just then he froze, not freeze froze, not can’t do this damn thing froze, not what am I doing here froze, he had come too far for that, had told too many people over too many whiskey swooned drinks at Johnny Rabb’s Tavern that he was on the way to stardom, no stopping him now but to think how far he had come since those long ago days down in Clarksville.

Seemed like a long time ago although it had only been five years since he headed north to Chicago to hallowed Maxwell Street via Memphis up the old Big Muddy after that fist fight, flashing brandished knife fight at end with Jimmy Jakes, whom he cut pretty badly. Jimmy, the owner of the juke joint where he made his bones most Saturday nights, had fired him or threw him out or just told him to get the hell out of his establishment when he said his customers were saying Sidewalk’s playlist was getting tired, had too much Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf, too much country three chords and out stuff when they were looking for, after hearing the Memphis radio station blast it out on nights they picked up the frequency down in the Delta,   something more upbeat like that new rock and roll they were hearing guys from around Memphis and Saint Louis play, white boys too, if they were going to spent their hard-earned money at Jimmy’s eating his fired-up ribs and swilling his lightning corn liquor.

So Sidewalk fled Clarksville for his life he thought (at nineteen he was just too young to know that around Clarksville, around the whole damn state of Mississippi, around the whole of Mister James Crow’s South nobody cared if one “Negro” cut up another, hell, murdered each other for that matter. As long as they kept it in Negro-town. Sidewalk also did not know that no way in hell was Jimmy going to call Sheriff Blake to complain about his injuries since his place, his fucking place, would be shut down, pay off or no payoff to keep it open after hours and keep his customers supplied with the Sheriff’s brother’s high grade corn, no so high grade once he cut the stuff but nobody complained and so there, and then where would one Jimmy Jakes be. Probably sucking wind over at Parchman’s working Mister’s sweated fields.

But Miss Collin’s was probably right that Leroy’s time was done down South and that his flight  was better than being found out in Mister Williams’ back forty plantation where they all mostly worked the cotton fields with some Jimmy Jakes knife in his back, case unsolved, case to the cold files before he was even cooled out.             

So that night, really the next morning early Sidewalk, small satchel, his road bindle, with all his earthly belongings mostly some ill-fitting clothing and toiletries and his harmonica inside for he could not risk taking that old Sears& Roebuck’s catalogue guitar Miss Collin’s had saved her rope-making money to get him one Christmas when he was twelve. Had clamored for after he played one at Jimmy’s that a guy had left behind to pay for his ribs and drinks since the guy was flush faded after shooting some ill-fated dice. So provisioned Leroy headed north on the early Greyhound bus. Headed first for Jackson then there to pick up another to transport him to Memphis where he heard guys who could guitar and sing, play guitar, sing and play the harmonica even better were the cat’s meow, were treated like kings once they set up shop at some corner of Beale Street on Saturday night and got discovered, got to play the legendary blues and jazz places where they would make their nut.

Yeah, Sidewalk had that stardust bad, just had to make his nut through his music. Once he got to Memphis he took a cheap room over a gin mill off of Beale Street with some of the money that his mother gave him to get on the road (he had made a mental note then to make sure to pay her back although he never did). The next day Leroy set up at the park across from Bill Bailey’s where a lot of new guys, according to a guy he met in the rooming house, took their acts and tried to polish them up for the locals who might throw a buck or two their way if they had some sound that interested those passers-by. Sidewalk did not learn until he was leaving town for the Windy City, for Chi town when he asked the rooming house night clerk for the whereabouts of that guy with the advice, Mo, in order to ask for the twenty bucks that he had lent him supposedly to pay his room rent that he had ducked out since Mo had been black-listed on the strip as a guy with no talent and a thief to boot.   

For the next four years Sidewalk was stuck in Memphis or so he thought as the days, weeks, years mounted. During that time in town is when Leroy Collins picked up the name Sidewalk, got his moniker since he worked, sometimes day and night, on the sidewalk in front of the famous blues clubs looking for his lucky break and people would have to practically go around him to get to their destinations. One night some flashy black brother, probably a number’s runner from the look of his over- the-top outfit that he was wearing trying to impress his lady, called out “sidewalk, move over, sidewalk” and the crowd in front of Lenny’s Blues Palace picked it up. So Sidewalk.

Sidewalk probably busted every door in the town looking to get in front of a paying crowd, even a few places down at the Bottoms which was the end of the road for any musician who had the sense to come out of the rain. Sidewalk didn’t. Didn’t listen when even the few places that would give him an audition told him this in chorus- “Sidewalk your playlist is tired, had too much Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf, too much Son House, Magic Jack, Charley Patton country three chords and out stuff”  In chorus they explained as if by agreement that “their customers, moving up in the world with jobs better than those old sweaty planation jobs and if white they already had good jobs, were looking for, after hearing the every Memphis radio station blast it out, something more upbeat like that new rock and roll they were hearing from Elvis and Chuck Berry if they were going to spent their hard-earned money at the clubs sucking up high-priced fine liquors and whatever their ladies wanted.”        

One day, one night actually, Sidewalk having only made three dollars all day, a twelve hour day, working the sidewalk in front of Bill Bailey’s, stopped into the Old Oak Grille where he drank his club liquor and got rip roaring drunk and wound up on the sidewalk, literally (not an unusual occurrence for him of late then) after Billy the bartender threw him out. Sobered up later he decided that he needed to get to a new town, get a fresh start. So naturally he headed north to Chi town, the place that he had expected to be already. Yeah, Chi town with all the places and with famous Maxwell Street where new talent was discovered every day and where the “max daddy” of blues labels, where the Wolf, where Muddy and Magic got their cakes from, Chess Records was always looking for new talent, a new sound to keep the hungry audiences well-fed.

Skipping out without paying his late room rent in order to save money for the big show he took yet another early morning Greyhound, complete with that same small satchel carrying almost the same clothes that he had left Clarksville with those few years before, and this time with his guitar which he had purchased at a pawn shop after he made enough money with his solo harmonica to get the thing (although it was always hellish to tune since it was a little warped around the frets), to Chicago.      

Same routine, always the same routine, as soon as Sidewalk got into town he got a cheap room off of Maxwell Street to be close to the action (one sign he was in a big city now was that the rooming house clerk made him pay a week’s security deposit in advance along with that week’s rent which almost tapped him out). That afternoon he hit the street setting up near Jacob’s Clothing Store. He had heard in Memphis that the merchants, mostly Jewish although he was not sure what Jewish was, liked blues singers to congregate in front of their stores to draw in customers, black and white although increasingly black in that section of Maxwell Street, to purchase their goods.

And so Sidewalk started, started drawing little crowds too once Two-Foot Davis (the genesis of that moniker unknown), an old hand on Maxwell took him under his wing. Took him to the confines of Johnny Rabb’s Tavern where there was an older crowd of blacks from the South who were nostalgic for the old time three country blues every now and again. Based on that push from Johnny’s crowd Sidewalk he began to get ideas about hitting it big, getting a big record contract, complete with pink Cadillac although he didn’t really care about the color if it came to that. Pushed on too by Too-Foot who had some secondary connections with Chess Records. Pushed on too by a little reefer and a lot of low-shelf whiskey (rotgut if he was low on funds). 

Sidewalk unfroze, it was “now or never” he said to himself. Had kept himself sober three days running in order to do this gig, to make a record if the Chess’ liked him. (He had sneaked a little reefer madness from the Be-Bop Kid to keep his nerves steady.) After checking in with the receptionist about five minutes later Leonard Chess came out and said to follow him. They went into a recording studio out back where Chess told him he wanted to hear what he had, wanted to know if he hadn’t been wasting his time doing Two-Foot a favor. So Sidewalk set up as Chess left to go to the sound room, took a seat and started playing Wolf’s How Many More Years. About a minute in, even before he got to the harmonica solo Chess waved his hand in a non-committal way to stop.

Sidewalk had a few seconds of excitement while Chess made his way to the studio from the sound room. Here is what Chess, the big record producer had to say-“ Sidewalk’s, that’s your name right, your sound is tired, had too much Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf, too much  country three chords and out stuff when our customers, moving up in the world with money to spent on music, on records, especially the kids, white kids or Negro are looking for, after hearing the every Memphis radio station blast it out for something more upbeat like that rock and roll they have been hearing and if they were going to spent money one records rather than go to the drive-in or go grab a burger you had to hit them where they jump. You don’t, you never will, sorry.”

So Sidewalk walked back to cheap street, back to Maxwell Street to nurse his act another day and dream about that big pink Cadillac he almost had within his reach.