Fortunately, Leslie West did not fade from view after his first flirtation with glory. After a multi-album stint alongside bassist Felix Pappalardi and drummer Corky Laing in Mountain, he re-emerged time and again with West, Bruce & Laing, the Leslie West Band, and a host of solo projects. Along the way, West has proved himself one of America’s best heavy rock guitarists, a status fueled in no small part by three factors: his million-dollar vibrato, his tone, and his solos. In the vibrato department, he has precious few peers – his hero Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, and Angus Young among them. His tone and solos are inseparable. At his very best – from Mountain’s “Theme for an Imaginary Western” and “Stormy Monday” all the way up to several tracks on his latest album, Unusual Suspects – Leslie sounds like his hands are hardwired to his heart and soul. His voice, that husky, raw, roaring, unstoppable force of nature, is as effective today as it was a generation or two ago. May it continue for decades to come.

My first encounter with Leslie occurred in 1979. My colleagues at Guitar Player magazine, Don Menn and Tom Wheeler, came back from a trade show in Atlanta with the news that not only had Leslie played there, but he was living just over the Santa Cruz mountains from our office. In that instant, I knew my mission: interview Leslie West! As a guitar-loving teenager, I’d been knocked out by Woodstock II, with its unsurpassed performances by Hendrix and Mountain. “Mississippi Queen” had been part of the soundtrack of my teens. I’d devoured each new Mountain album as it came out, all the West, Bruce & Laing recordings, The Great Fatsby, and especially The Leslie West Band, which I still count among my favorite albums. I gave Leslie a call, and he invited me right over. At the time, it had been four years since The Leslie West Band album, and his career was in flux. He was renting a house on Woodlands Drive in Ben Lomond, California, and flirting with putting a band together with former Faces and Humble Pie frontman Steve Marriot.

Leslie and I hit it off right away. On the first day, July 20, 1979, we spoke and played for hours. He invited me back the following week, and we did another two-hour interview. No article ever came from these conversations, mostly because Leslie’s band with Steve soon fell apart and he moved on to other projects. During the ensuing years, we did have other memorable encounters and interviews that were published. Thank you, Leslie, for permission to transcribe and publish our first conversation after all these years.

Be forewarned: The following interviews are about as long as seven music-magazine cover stories put together. But I am happy they exist, as they give unprecedented insight into an unforgettable musician. As I walked into his house that first day, Leslie was tuning up an unplugged double-cutaway electric guitar.

***

Hi, Leslie. What kind of guitar is that?

This is an MPC Electra. [Switches on his amp, creating a large, distorted tone.] Loud little sucker. This guitar has modules you can plug into it. [Plays a few fuzzed-out measures of “Hall of the Mountain King.”] Now, you can clean it up. [Pushes another switch and creates a strange octave effect.] I’ve got two octave dividers there. [Plays another riff.] Ain’t that something? Sounds like a harmony in there. You play guitar?

Yes.

You’ve got to feel what it feels like to play. Now, you’ve got to play very staccato. [Takes off his guitar and hands it to me.] Sit down and play. You’ll be more comfortable with it. [I begin playing a blues progression.] Now, you can’t play chords. You gotta attack the strings one by one and plunk it. Don’t let anything else ring except the note you’re hitting. With the chords, it takes a long time to practice to try to get the notes to ring clear. I’ll tell ya man, it was very hard at first. [As I play a few more riffs, Leslie activates switches on the guitar.]

Unique type of sound.

Isn’t it? I don’t think anybody’s got it. That’s why I’m so intrigued with this guitar. [Takes it back and solos at a very high volume.] Pretty good, huh? I got so sick of all these guitars with DiMarzios, DiFarzios – everything’s the same! And that guitar is just something new. It turns me on. [Leslie sets it down.] That’s an interesting sounding guitar, huh?

Do you still keep a Les Paul around?

Not here. I have them in New York. The Juniors are in two pieces, most of them. You know what happened? When I got tired of playing – really tired of playing – I was tired of Les Pauls, Strats, the whole business. And this guitar was laid on me and made me want to play again. There are 12 different modules you can put in there – there’s phasing, flanging, overdrive, octave divide, compressors.

Looks like you can fit two in there at once. Can they hook up something to run more modules at once?

Yeah, the guy at the company’s got a whole bank in the workshop. It holds fifty. Can you imagine that? It’s not a synthesizer, now. It’s just like all the pedals Hendrix had but without having to trip over all the fucking wires.

I recently interviewed Mick Ralphs, who talked about touring with you when he was with Mott the Hoople. He said you turned him on to a style of playing.

And Les Paul Juniors.

Yeah, he said he never saw one until he saw you with it.

You know, on 48th Street in New York there’s a place called We Buy Guitars. Well, Larry, it’s really funny. He used to sell all the Juniors to me. I bought the white Junior from him. And he had signs in his window, “Leslie West Les Paul Junior model.” It was funny seeing one up there. I’ll never forget it. It was a beat-up, battered piece of shit, and it didn’t look like it could be called anybody’s model. He owns three stores on that block, man. We Buy Music – it’s right across from Manny’s. Manny’s is the Corvette of music stores. Whatever Henry tells you not to get, you definitely should get, in that music store.

That last album you put out, The Leslie West Band . . .

With Mick Jones?

An ass kicker.

The trouble, though, with that album was my manager. He knew I was leaving, and he owned the label.

Phantom Records?

Yeah. He manages Foreigner, and he knew I was leaving. So he didn’t bother to promote it, since he owned the label, and he just let it die. But I thought we had some good songs. I mean, the songs on there was the beginning of what Mick took to Foreigner. Those roots.

That version of “Dear Prudence” was really nice.

The kids in the background, those were the kids from The Wiz, the original cast. Those kids are the premiere backup singers in New York. There trip is that if you pay ’em a hundred bucks, they’ll do the whole session – three hours, or whatever it’s for. And that’s how they made a lot of money.

So you’re getting a new band together.

Yeah, we’re working on that, man. There’s a lot of things going through my head, though, at this time, with doing a band, doing everything. It’s like I’ve got so many different ideas of what I’d really like to do. I swear to God, the last two days, I’ve lost all my interest to go and start touring and doing the whole thing. You know what is the most incredible thing that I would love to do? Join a fucking band and play guitar in a band, a band that I idolize. A band that I knew that I could add something to their music. I just don’t feel like starting a whole new band and calling it something else with my name on it or Steve’s name or something like that. My real dream would be to do something like that, or even in the studio, you know. I hear some of the shit now and think to myself, “If only Motown would have used a guitarist.” The roots changed, and all of a sudden guys I went to school with, like Waddy Wachtel and other guys, are right up there. It’s amazing. Eddie Money. He used to come see me when I was at the Action in Long Island – front row! Oh, man. There’s more people coming out of New York, making it now, and nobody realizes it.

Last we heard, you were up in Milwaukee.

My partner and manager has a men and women’s beauty salon there. It’s called the Hair Company. And the West Company is right across the hall. We had our offices moved out there because New York was so crazy. I want to get out of New York – the drug scene, the whole music scene, everything.

Many of the guitarists we interview talk about your style.

Hey, man, that’s the greatest thrill in the world, because I was wondering when I was going to get all the accolades! [Laughs.] I’ll tell you the truth.

British people, especially.

It’s incredible. The American people, not so, because they are so hung up on their damn selves. And I’ll tell you, there’s not too many guitarists in America that I really dig.

I’ve heard you like Van Halen.

Oh, Edward? He’s got something to say, man.

He made that guitar himself too.

Yeah, and the funny thing is at the music show [NAMM show], somebody was making copies of Edward’s guitar and selling them. Yeah. They were Japanese copies of his ax.

Eddie has a good attitude too.

Yeah, he’s happy. He can’t believe it! He’s just so thrilled. See, the most important thing to me is vibrato, and he’s got it. You know, it’s funny. You were talking about Mick Ralphs – you know that me and Corky [Laing] were almost in Bad Company? When West, Bruce & Laing was formed, the night before Jack started playing with us, he had to go to Germany. So we went to Island Studios, Corky and I, and Paul Rodgers and Mick came down, and we were making tapes. They wanted to start a group, and we said, “Well, we just asked Jack last night.” They started Bad Company. So yeah, I’ve had a lot of influence. Mott the Hoople – when they first came over, they were Mountain’s publicity directors. Another of the English groups – Jethro Tull – said, “Man, when you come to Europe, we’ll do all the promoting in the world for you.” They were our fans, and it was incredible because they were scared coming over here. We were working with them and showing them everything and taking them around. We formed very tight relationships with the English groups.

What did it mean for an English group to tour America the first time?

It was like, “Wow! Conquering America!” Think about it.

How were the bucks for them?

Oh, the first time around, in those days? You don’t do it for the bucks. You do it to be able to come to America. It’s like you don’t go to England to make money. You can’t make money touring London or even all of England. It takes you six days to tour all of England. And you walk out of there with shit. So you don’t do that for money. But they sure like to come here.

Which band did you like being in best?

West, Bruce & Bullshit. West, Bruce & Laing. I had a lot of fun in there, because I learned so much from Jack. Oh, boy – what a bass player!

What did you learn?

How to fuckin’ play solos! How to get in and out of a solo. How to compose a solo. Every time you take a solo, to me, it’s like writing a song. A lot of guitarists just jump right in and they’re right up on the top of the neck immediately.

We have a five-foot poster of Jack Bruce on the wall in the Guitar Player office, playing a Gibson bass.

Remember the Fender Jaguar he had? The one in Cream with the painting – I got that! Jack gave me that 6-string son of a bitch. Yeah! Jackie Lomax has got Eric’s guitar – the SG tomahawk one. He was up in Woodstock when I was living there, and he offered to sell it to me because I had the bass. And I turned it down because I didn’t want to buy it, because Eric’s my idol. I didn’t want to just buy Eric’s guitar. But shit, I could have had Eric’s and Jack’s – oof.

You know who’s got Eric’s psychedelic Cream guitar, that SG?

That’s the one I’m talking about! Jackie Lomax.

I heard that Todd Rundgren has it.

Todd bought it, because he lives in Woodstock. He bought it from Jackie. What? Did Todd tell you that Eric gave it to him?

No. I just heard that he had it.

Runt.

He’s got a good sense of humor.

He does. Hey, he is the Phil Spector of the 1970s. I’m telling you – and you can quote me. I mean that. He was in Nazz, and he lives in Woodstock now.

It’s strange to think that in five months it will be the 1980s.

I can’t believe that ten years ago I was sticking my head out of the helicopter, going in to Woodstock, man, to play that fucking show.

What day did you play?

Saturday. The nicest day – at night. The first time it was dark and all the lights came on. Our agent was Hendrix’s agent, Ron Terry, so they gave us the best shot in the fucking show!

What was it like playing Woodstock?

It was incredible, man. I was so scared, and I was going on with these 400,000 people out there. I got up onstage and I had my three stacks of Sunns, and Felix had his three stacks of Sunns. It was so loud! When it came time for my solo, our roadie hooked up all twelve of the Sunns.

Is this for “Blood of the Sun?”

No, my guitar solo, by myself. And boy! Twelve Coliseums at once! It was not loud – it was just the biggest, fullest sound. Because who could be loud outdoors? You know, the sound just goes. But this almost landed. This almost was that loud that I thought, “Wow! The man upstairs is talking!” It was so loud. It was probably magnified because I was so nervous. It was incredible, boy.

Mountain hadn’t been together that long before Woodstock.

No, it was our third gig.

How did you get on the show?

Because our agent, Ron Terry, was friends with my manager at the time. Premier Talent didn’t want to bother with us at that time – nobody knew who we were, really. And Ron just happened to pull a good move – a very good move.

After Woodstock, Mountain became a supergroup.

It was like only a year after that. I think Santana broke from Woodstock, Ten Years After broke there. But we weren’t on the first Woodstock album. We were on the second one. Boy, it was incredible then. I was listening to the radio the other day, and every record that came on had the same guitar sound on it – you know, that Les Paul with the Boston/Foreigner harmonizer on the guitar.

Are you still in touch with your bandmates from Mountain?

You know, when I went to Florida last summer, I promised Corky I would play on his solo album if he ever did one. So he did one, and he put on it that I played on it, and I wasn’t on it. So this time I went. He called up my partner in Milwaukee, and I was still hiding, withdrawing, everything. He said that his album had stopped – Elektra Asylum cut the budget. Would I play on it? It was the only thing that would bring it back. So I said yeah. So they picked up his budget and I went up to Woodstock – Todd was there. And he had done all these tracks with [Mick] Ronson and himself, with Felix and Ian Hunter. And it was awful. Mick Ronson played so out of tune. So I made a deal with Corky. I said, “I’ll play on it, but I’ve got to be able to take Mick Ronson out, and I’ll redo his part. I don’t care about doing the extra work. I don’t want somebody listening to it and wondering who’s Leslie and who’s Mick Ronson.” How is anybody gonna know, especially somebody who doesn’t know who the fuck we are? He said okay. So I went up and I worked my ass off. I had these things sounding so good. And all of a sudden I realized that him and Felix had this thing planned. They wanted to get me up there to play on Corky’s solo album and turn around and tell Elektra Asylum, “Look – I got Mountain back together. How much is it worth?” And I knew they offered a million dollars for us to get back together for two albums over two years.

When was this?

This past summer, last summer. They didn’t know I knew this, so when it came time Corky paid me in Woodstock – two solos, five grand. And he called me again. “Come down to Florida, to Criteria.” The Bee Gees had given up their studio time, so I would be able to come in and overdub two more. Would I play on two more? I said, “Well, two more is sort of half an album. So what’s going on?” “Oh, no, no, no. Come on down. Felix loved the way you played. Felix told me you never played so good, man.” So I go down there – the Bee Gees are all there, even Andy’s there in the control room. They’re hanging out in the studio. We’re watching the World Series. And I did the two more solos, and I said, “Where’s the other check?” I was staying at the Cricket Club at $150 a day, and I’m paying for all this, because Corky’s gonna pay me. He said, “Well, I haven’t gotten in touch with the West Coast yet.” I said, “I’m leaving tonight.” “Oh, no, no.” They didn’t think I’d leave. So I went to the studio, and I said to them, “Look. Felix, I don’t know who’s bullshitting, you or Corky, but I know what’s going on. Do you have the check?” “No.” I said, “Felix, are you the producer?” “Yeah.” I said, “Since when?” “Well, since I spoke to Elektra.” I said, “Well, how come at Woodstock last week you weren’t?” He had nothing to do with it, except he played on the tracks. “Well, that’s something else.” I said, “Well, if you’re to producer now, you okay the purchase orders. Where’s the check?” “Uh, speak to Corky – it’s his album.”

I sent the guitars out to the car, and twenty minutes later I told the both of them, “It’s been a pleasure. I’m leaving.” I walked out – the Bee Gees saw me leave, everybody saw me leave. And sure enough, I went home and they sent a letter to Elektra Asylum. It seems they didn’t even need the letter. They’d heard about it from the people in the studio that they got me so upset I walked out in front of the Bee Gees and all of this shit. That I came all the way down there to do a session, I did it, and I walked out because nobody paid me. They sent the $5000 to my account so fast, by a transfer, and they stopped Corky’s album. It was a really bad thing, man, because I was really hoping that the guys would have changed. But to do that shit, try to be sneaking like that.

Why didn’t they just come right out and tell you?

That’s my point. They were so desperate, you see. And I’m not desperate. I really couldn’t give a fuck. Money – thank God we don’t starve no more, you know. That’s the only thing. If you’re a little bit smart, you can fix it. So I live in New York and I’m living here [in California], and it’s great. I don’t have to kill myself or put up with bullshit like that.

You saved your money, huh?

Well, I did one smart thing. I bought a house in New York City.

Is this when you were with Mountain?

No, I bought it during West, Bruce & Laing – the big money days.

Good part of New York?

Well, it was such a good part that Ahmet Ertegun bought it. It’s 81st and Park. He lived next door to me. Ahmet Ertegun was my next-door neighbor. So he bought my house and made two houses. This was two years ago.

West, Bruce & Laing paid you more than Mountain?

Well, you see, when we started the record deal with Columbia, it was for $350,000 per album, and that was in 1975. Felix, man [with Mountain] – you see why I walked out in Florida, after him making all that money all them years. He owned the record label, produced the group, managed the group, was in the group, published the group. Isn’t that a little bit unconscionable? You know, wouldn’t you think? Whenever they used to tell me I’m doing great, I used to say, “Well, if I’m doing great, you’re doing fantastic!” I’m tellin’ ya.

How did Mountain’s Twin Peaks album come about?

Oh, man, that was ridiculous. It was just more old songs. I wanted to do new stuff, badly. What happened was Felix told me, “If we go to Japan, we’re gonna put a live album out over there.” And I didn’t even know Corky wasn’t going. They had some kind of thing, a hassle with their old ladies, and Felix told me Corky wasn’t going. He said he had this drummer, Allan Schwartzberg, and Bob Mann was gonna play rhythm guitar. I said, what the hell. I wanted to go to Japan, so I did it. And Corky thought that it was my fault that he didn’t go. I told him later on what had happened. We had a fight the last night before Tokyo. We played, the Leslie West Band, Central Park, and he did a really great solo. And I knew he wasn’t going. And that night Felix was gonna tell him. And I knew that he was gonna really be mad at me. When I came back from Japan, I said, “Felix, I don’t want to continue this group unless you get Corky back in it.” So Corky came back in the group. And then Corky and I came to blows later on. I fired him and Carmine [Appice] took his place. This is when Mick Jones was in the band. Things were fucked up. A lot of stories, a lot of stories.

You got the band with Mick together after The Great Fatsby album?

Yeah. I really wanted to have a good band. Mick Jones wanted to be a record distributor or something – he was ready to pack it in. And I said, “Gee, you’re such a good-looking guy and you play guitar. You look like a standard English guitarist.” [At this point Leslie picks up a copy of Guitar Player magazine that I brought for him.] I used to think for a while that Guitar Player was really getting ridiculous – every page is an ad. But you know what I like? It’s in a way good. See, you can always see what’s happening. Some of the ads are ridiculous, but I’ve seen a lot things. For instance, now I am sponsoring that guitar, the MPC guitar. I’m looking in your magazine, and I see an ad for Crate amp. I said, “Wow. What a nice-looking small amp.” I went to factory one day, and I saw it. I didn’t know it was theirs. But I saw the ad in your magazine, and I’m working with the company. I sponsor the Crates now.

It’s nice to get with a company like that.

Especially if they’re behind you. This guitar [points to his MPC] is good. I’ve gotten a lot of free stuff in my life that sucks, but it is a good guitar. [Note: These days, Leslie sponsors Dean Guitars – for details, see note at end of article.]

Has Gibson ever given you guitars?

Gibson doesn’t give away shit. There’s a motive for everything they do. The guy Bruce Bolen from Gibson, he happens to be a close friend of mine, and Bruce used to always find the Juniors for me. And that was like having a C.I.A. agent looking for you. I was wanting a Firebird Junior. Ever seen a Firebird Junior? It’s a backwards guitar – Eric used one on the Live Cream album. Bruce had one in his office. I don’t even think Les Paul has any originals. He said that he never knew that they were gonna become famous, so he never bothered to keep one. It’s a great guitar. How long have you been playing?

Since 1966.

There’s nothing like the electric guitar, huh? It still fascinates me. Another thing that fascinates me is the Japanese influence, man. The last article I did, I believe I mentioned in there that I think about the prices of guitars, how expensive they were for a kid to go and buy a guitar, an exotic guitar. There was no way he could. But all of a sudden, the Japanese now – wow! I’m playing a Japanese guitar. Remember when we laughed at Japanese stuff? Sony TVs, huh? Tell me about Sony TVs, Nakamichi tape decks. Now it’s embarrassing to have some American products.

How many Les Paul Juniors have you owned?

Five. And I never paid more than 170 bucks for each one.

When did you get your first one?

Felix gave it to me. Remember when [Cream’s] Disraeli Gears and all that was going on? Whatever year that was. Well, when it became #1, Felix went to Danny Armstrong’s guitar shop. Eric had a Les Paul, a cherry Les Paul with his name all down in the head[stock] – “Eric Clapton” instead of “Gibson.” Danny had it inlaid “Eric Clapton,” and the head broke. Felix was feeling really rich, so he gave Danny, I think, a thousand bucks for the guitar. And Danny never fixed it. So Felix went there to get credit, and he got a Junior and he got a bass. He showed me the Junior, and I said, “Wow! What a unique little thing.” Felix played a little guitar. He had a little amp, and he cranked it up and he showed me how the little Junior blasted out this little speaker in the amp. I started playing it – one control. “Wow, this is such a simple, nothing instrument.” I said, “How much can I get this instrument to do?” Because it looks like it’s just a piece of wood, strings, and pickup, and it was always shorting out. Shittiest pegs – you know, the white plastic. And that was it. I said, “Wow! I’m in heaven. I’ve got a Les Paul” – I knew that was the thing to get, but I was about to get everybody’s gold-top, one of those. And this is ’68. I said, “Wow, I got a Les Paul, but it’s not quite . . . .”

Dig this – in 1965 I bought Wachtel’s Les Paul Junior, the mustard double-cutaway, because he bought a Rickenbacker 12. We saw the Beatles, me and him, and he said, “I gotta get me one of them.” He bought George Harrison Beatle boots at Florsheim on Broadway, and he bought the Rickenbacker and sold me his Les Paul. He got the Rickenbacker home, and he cracked the fuckin’ Rickenbacker and had to borrow back the Les Paul. He had this beautiful, beautiful Rickenbacker – it wasn’t the one George Harrison used, but it was the one [Roger] McGuinn had, the red one. That’s the way we bought instruments in those days – according to who was using ’em. I bought his Les Paul, but I didn’t know what a Les Paul meant in those days. I sprayed it with paint. And then when I started my group, the Vagrants, [sighs, says sadly] I traded a 1956 Strat for a brand-new Kent, three pickup, at a pawnshop on 8th Avenue. I didn’t know what a guitar meant. And in those days, I thought “shiny new” meant “good.” This Fender I had was beat to hell, but what a sad story. Isn’t that a sad story? I wish I could tell you that the Kent went on to make millions of dollars in records, but the Kent never did shit.

What year did you make that trade?

Uh, the year the Beatles played Shea Stadium [1965]. And that Strat was the one I bought with my bar mitzvah money, man. I bought it. I’m 33 now – and I was born in ’45 – so 13 and 45 is 58. So in 1958 I bought that Strat. Imagine if I had it now? An old Strat from ’58?

When did you start playing guitar? How old were you?

13.

You started out with a Strat.

That bar mitzvah, yeah.

What made you want to play?

I saw Elvis Presley on that Stage Show – you know, that Tommy Dorsey did. Tommy Dorsey and Jimmy Dorsey replaced Jackie Gleason years ago, in the summer. They had Elvis on. I saw him, and I thought that was the greatest-looking thing in the world. So I got an acoustic tenor guitar and I played that. A tenor guitar is the last top four strings. I played that for years. Finally my mother said, “You better go to school.” I went, and I saw that they had two other strings. I didn’t know about 6-strings. And to move up, it was very difficult, because it was like moving from a ukulele. I didn’t know what to do with those other two strings. So my mother hid the tenor guitar on me. That forced me to play the 6-string. It’s a good thing she did, because it really made you want to be real lazy. I would tape up the strings on the guitar, so they didn’t count, even though I had a new guitar. You see? She bought me this new guitar, and what was frustrating is, there’s this new guitar – but wait a minute, I can’t play it. It’s got these two other strings. So it wasn’t really that great new guitar. Something was wrong with it. It wasn’t perfect yet. But at least I got it. I was playing accordion for about a week before I found the guitar. And the accordion was so heavy. I remember smashing it and putting it in the case, million pieces, locking it and throwing the key away. And the guy came to pick it up and he shook the case. He heard all the shaking, but he didn’t want to open it and see. Oh, was it smashed, man. I was so frustrated with that instrument. Oh, it was disgusting. The accordion frightened me into playing the guitar. That’s what happened.

Did you learn how to play “Heartbreak Hotel” right away?

Uh, yeah. That was my first song.

You did it at a talent show?

Yeah, in junior high school.

Was it a hip thing to play guitar back then?

No! Nobody did. But if you did, you were . . . Because I was a little fat kid, you know. You ever see those ads in those comic books, “You can be a hit at parties.” Well, that’s what I was. [Laughs.] And it was working! The only thing was, there was no girls then. Because all you wanted to do was just impress everybody. “Wow,” you know. “A girl? I don’t know about that.” You know, we saw the Beatles, and that was what made us all want to play – all the Vagrants. You know, that was, “Hey! Let’s play.” And they didn’t know how to play. My brother was in the group – Larry played bass.

How old were you?

I was much older than them. They were all three years younger than me. Well, the Vagrants broke up in 1967, I guess – ’68? I don’t know all the dates. [Leslie takes a phone call, returns.] You wanna hear one of the cuts that we did? The new stuff?

Sure.

Sit there and I’ll play it. [Plays cassette of blues-rock song featuring Steve Marriot’s vocals and Leslie’s slide guitar.] I used the octave divider on the slide. He had the song written, and I put that lick on it. [Multi-tracked solo begins.] I’ve got three guitars all at once here. [Song ends.] That’s the second night we ever played together.

Leslie, you’ve got a sound like no one else.

Really? Did you see how long I waited to come in with that solo? [Plays another song that’s darker and more metallic.] I love this. No pedals, just the guitar. [As the song ends, he hands me a joint.] People that get high, man. I’ve had a lot of drugs in my life – fuckin’ heroin, morphine, cocaine – and thai sticks and cocaine is the best. You can do anything you want. The funny thing is, man, the real thrill – more than anything else, I swear to God – is playing. I wish there was a way to automatically plug yourself into a studio. You know? [Picks up his guitar, turns it up loud, and quickly retunes. Flipping on the distortion module, he launches into a muscular riff.] Do you know how to count time?

Yeah.

Count it. Is this in seven?

Yeah.

[When the riffing ends, Leslie retunes to open D, activates another switch, and plays a clean-toned country breakdown. Next come some Stones-style chords.] It’s a good-sounding amp, but I’ll tell you what. I bought a Marshall when I came here, downtown. It’s called a Beauty. You’ve seen it? The brown Tolex. And it is the best amp I ever played in my life. It’s worth $1300. It’s the same size as a Twin, and yet it’s $1300. Amazing, at the price. [Glances at a baseball game on a TV with the sound off. Someone gets a hit.] My boys, the Yankees! Boom! I’m a stickball player, boy.

Oh yeah? We used to play that in Detroit.

Yeah. Hey, man, I spent so many fuckin’ good times in Detroit at the old Sheraton Cadillac. Two of my friends’ father bought that hotel, and they own the Gramercy Park in New York too. But Detroit, Dee-troit. It ain’t like it used to be. I gather you’re like me, in your thirties, late twenties . . . How old are you?

27.

Late twenties. It ain’t like it was, is it? What’s happening? You know what’s happening – and you can quote this, Jack, and see if anybody’s gonna contest that I’m wrong. You know when you’re growing up, trying to get out to hear your rock and roll, and the parents all went crazy? My mother was listening to Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra – “That’s good music.” Well, the way we’re looking at punk now is exactly the same as our parents! Are we getting all fuddy-duddy? No, the music we like happens to be a little bit better than today’s music. I’m not kidding myself, am I? But the kids today, you couldn’t tell them that. Tell them that Procol Harum happened to be one of the best groups, in my opinion, musically. Try to play that “Whiter Shade a Pale” for a kid going to a Kiss concert. No way! It’s like playing semi-pro ball and Yankee Stadium – it’s two different worlds. And that’s the same feeling. Our parents, when they were talking down to us, it’s not a matter of better or worse, it’s what you grow up with. We grew up with that shit – there ain’t nobody gonna tell us it ain’t great! It’s like telling you your high school sucked. “No, I had a great time.” “No, it sucked!” Nobody can tell us that. And the music is all part of the times. Before Frank Sinatra, I guess it was the swing – what was that, in the Roaring Twenties? The Charleston? Yeah. You know, our grandmothers, and now we’re feeling it. Growing pains. All of a sudden, it’s like turning around and saying, “Wow. They must think I’m an old fart.” It’s the truth. That’s all that it amounts to, man. It’s not better or worse. It’s different. That’s why people say. Remember the expression, “You can’t compare anything.” You can’t. It’s like comparing punk – it’s not comparable, it’s different. That’s the only thing in relationship. It’s weird, man.

You know, my roommate, Dave, he’s so thrilled that you were coming, man. Magazines – he buys these fucking things, you know. The funny thing with him is, we moved across the street, Steve and me. We rented his house, big house, and we’re all living there. And one day before Ian Wallace came, we were looking for a drummer. Steve said [imitates Steve Marriot’s British accent], “There’s a kid across the road got a big fuckin’ drum set, mate. Big fuckin’ drum set! I’ve never seen one like it. I’m going over to see if he can play.” So Steve walked in, and they were playing. Marriot just came crashing through the house. Dave’s got a Mexican friend who said, “Hey, who the fuck are you?” Marriot said, “Well, I live across the road.” Dave said, “Wait a minute. You’re Steve Marriot from the Small Faces, Peter Frampton [Humble Pie].” He said, “Oh, yeah! It’s cool.” Oh, God. And then Dave found out we were living over there.

So I moved in and got the house together. Dave doesn’t quite understand the era of music I’m from, although he knows Mountain and Humble Pie. He knows all the songs. He listens to that Dennis Erectus, that disc jockey from San Jose, and I can’t believe it – he actually enjoys the guy. And after about three nights, I started listening too to that music. Most of it’s shitty, but there are some groups that are coming up. I swear to God I heard U.F.O. do a song the other night, and in the middle of it it goes [sings a riff from “Mississippi Queen”]. I said, “That’s from ‘Mississippi Queen’ if I’m a fuckin’ dead uncle.” And Dave said, “No, that’s from U.F.O.” I said, “No, Dave, you don’t understand. ‘Mississippi Queen’ is from Ten Years After [sings another riff].” That’s where I stole it from! Boy. If I didn’t have that to listen to, man, I would be very, very lost. Now I can see why a lot of musicians that grew up in the era that I’m from, the ’70s, are scared shitless. They don’t know what to do!

Do you still listen to 1960s music?

Uh, no. Do you know the only thing I listen to? The radio.

You don’t listen to Cream or Hendrix?

No. The last time I listened to anybody from back then was a long time ago. The last six months I’ve been working very hard on this [a new band], putting this together. So I don’t really listen to anything else. I must admit, I don’t listen to records as much. I listen to Dave’s album collection, which is like a cross-section of what America’s listening to now. I hate it sometimes. You know, he plays drums to Van Halen – I love that. So he put Van Halen’s both records on tape, four sides, so I’ve got to listen all the way through. And now I know every one of Edward’s licks backwards and forwards, and I’m sick of it already. But I love the style.

Have you ever seen Randy Hansen imitating Jimi Hendrix?

No. Do you know what I gotta ask you? I must have heard him play, and I’m sure he knows who I am, but I don’t know Lee Ritenour. I know how he plays and everything now, and that’s incredible, but I’d never even heard of him until I saw in your magazine that he’d won [a Readers Poll Award]. Where did he come from? Do you wonder, in the polls . . . I think I’ve been maybe nominated, but I’ve never won a poll or come in on a poll. It’s funny, the older guitarists recognize me more than the people. What I’ve realized is that now the oldest guitarists that are making it are now saying it, so you don’t know what’s gonna happen from that. It’s like when I started, I was saying it was Clapton, and he was already up there. But it’s funny that someone like Mick Ralphs talks about me. All we used to do on tour was collect guitars.

He said that you guys got along well and that he loves your style.

He did, huh?

Yes. It’s in the new issue of Guitar Player, which hasn’t come out yet.

Let me ask you. You’re an editor of this magazine. Your opinion is respected. What would you do if you were in my shoes?

Let me think about it. [Long pause.] If you can get a band together with Steve Marriot, and split the singing with him, 50-50 . . .

You think I should sing?

Definitely.

I don’t wanna sing anymore.

Why?

I just want to pay guitar.

But your voice is unique. And it’s done stuff to songs that no one else could do.

Really?

It’s like a whiskey voice. It’s got power – like “Blood of the Sun” on Woodstock II.

[Sighs.]

So you should get a band together.

You don’t think I should do it with someone else? In other words, what I feel I can contribute to is a group – remember what Joe Walsh did to the Eagles? That’s what I’m talking about! Something like that. In other words, not because of the money, because I know if I do a solo record deal, I would end up with the money myself. But I don’t want the responsibility on my shoulders, man. It’s an awful load.

Do you want to go on the road?

I did. I thought I did.

Have you been writing a lot?

Me and Steve wrote a lot of songs together.

Have you got a bass player?

We’ve got the whole band. Somebody talked him into it.

You’re not sure you want to do it?

After the other day, there’s some things involved legally with the lawyers. I think there’s some games going on, and I’m not into that. What’s your real name?

I was born “James.”

You sound like you’ve been listening to me play, James.

I’ve known your music since the Leslie West Mountain album.

That’s almost the very, very tippy-toe beginning.

And I even liked Twin Peaks, especially the guitar solo.

Yeah? [Leslie crosses the room, picks up a guitar, and cranks up the amp volume. He plays Cream’s “Crossroads” riff and solo and seamlessly segues into snippets of Jimi Hendrix’s “Wind Cries Mary” and “Voodoo Child.” From there, he goes into “Hall of the Mountain King,” jumping octaves midway through. When he’s finished, he briefly explains the modules he has installed in the guitar.]

How many guitars do you have around you?

In my life, or in this house?

The house.

Three. They made me an Explorer with the modules in it, that one [points to the Electra], and a new one they gave me at the show, a gray color with a double cutaway.

What do you have in your life?

Uh, I think about 11. I’ve got John Phillip’s gigantic custom-made Guild 12-string. It’s as big as Zemaitis’ guitars. My brother picked it up. It belonged to John Phillips of The Mamas & The Papas. Hey, tell me something. Who’s your favorite guitarist?

Hendrix.

I gotta say, it’s either Eric or Hendrix. For motivation, I gotta say Eric. For taking a style and doing something crazy with it? Hendrix, boy. He was just so fluid. He was so sexy onstage, man. Do you know that I played with him the night before he died?

No. Over in England?

No, in New York at Unganos. He was in New York, man, before he went to England. What happened was Steve Miller was playing Unganos, and I went there to see Steve Miller. And I sold him a Les Paul. Jimi Hendrix was in town, in the club. I’d never played with him, I never met him, and sure enough, he came down. There were no amps. I said, “Look, I got a loft on 36th Street.” We got in a limousine, went to my loft, picked up my amps. My roadie woke up, and there was Hendrix standing by his bed. This guy woke up, and then he had these Screaming Yellow Zonkers – you know, those popcorn things? He was eating them. You know, I was in awe, and here’s this roadie getting up, and he saw Hendrix. He didn’t know what to get first! Jimi just said, “Calm down” – you know, real mellow. We got back in the car, went and played all night. Jimi played bass. One of the newspapers was there, and they took a picture of it. All the papers in New York City have copies of the photos. Tim Davis was playing drums.

Do you remember what Jimi played on bass?

We just played a slow blues. And then when we were doing Mountain Climbing, Jimi was the first one to hear it finished. He was doing Band of Gypsys in the Record Plant, with Buddy Miles. And he came in when we’d finished mixing and he listened to it. And you know “Never in My Life”? [Sings the riff.] He loved that little stop in there. He said, “Oh, I love that.” I thought it was great! I said, ‘Wow! J.H.” Oh, man.

When did you start getting into Clapton?

When I was tripping on acid. Felix produced one of the Vagrants records. When I was getting into the guitar, I bought this album by Cream, the first album [Fresh Cream]. And then when I found out Felix was producing them, Felix was my idol. You know what I mean?

Did you enjoy playing the Atlanta Pop Festival?

They made an album of that. They put it on the back of the Isle of Wight. That was really a great show, man. I had more fun at that than Woodstock, because we were already established.

A lot of people liked your version of “Stormy Monday.”

Yeah, that was nice cut, huh? We were very lucky that we all clicked that night. When those things work, when everybody is right on, you know. But when you’re not, it can be the most disastrous.

What was your life like in those days?

Just worked. All we did was tour. It was just such hard work.

How did you travel?

A Lear jet. [Laughs.] If I had to do it again, I don’t think I would have taken a Lear jet. Felix, really – it was his idea. It was my fault, because I suggested it, and he got used to it. It cost a lot of money – $600 an hour. He didn’t want to do anything but get out of the house, get in the car, get on a plane, get in a car, do the gig, and go back, get on a plane, and go home. You know, he didn’t want to stay on the road. We did that for a couple of tours. But it was a lot of fuckin’ work! And it was really, really gravy.

Weren’t the audiences something?

It was great at the time, man. You knew whether or not they wanted you to do an encore. Now it’s just they don’t want to go home yet.

What were the best bands you traveled with?

I worked mostly with Jethro Tull, Ten Years – a lot of Chrysalis acts. Oh, this is funny. You know Martin [Barre], from Jethro Tull? One of his biggest things was he wanted to be recognized by his peers. And he never was recognized by his peers – eh, a little bit. But he wanted that more than anything. It’s very hard when you’re in a group that’s a name around the group, and nobody knows who’s who. Like in Chicago – until the guy killed himself, nobody knew who the fuck he was. Peer recognition – that’s more important than anything. And he knew I had it, because he felt the same way as Mick Ralphs did. We were inspired, and they somehow grabbed on to the way I played. I don’t know what it was. It was very into me and Felix playing together. Like in their groups, they never could get the bass player to play the big power licks. And the greatest thing was to play those things and to play off from there – you know, run the solo off from there. So they took to that.

We toured with the same acts for about two years, I would say. We were all with World Premier Talent, so we all worked together. We got along very good. In fact, we came back to Detroit, where you were from, with Jethro Tull. And the customs officers in Toronto let us get on. Everything was fine. We got to Detroit, they had thirteen custom officers – six chicks and seven guys – to frisk us all. They pushed us in a room, and I said, “The people with the heroin you’re looking for went through with the attaché case, in a suit and tie.” It was really funny – all of us got nabbed, all of us. We were last on the plane, drunk. What were you doing then?

What year is this?

’71, ’72.

I was in school in Cleveland, Ohio.

Cleveland?

Yeah. I saw Steve Marriot that year [with Humble Pie at John Carroll University], and he kicked ass. He sang without a microphone.

Yeah, that’s what he does. So he shows he’s louder than a P.A. Great. I think you’ll go see him in Cleveland again, maybe.

Did you ever play with Eric Clapton?

I’ve never met Eric. He’s the only person I’ve never met. I’ve never met Clapton.

What do you feel he’s done?

He made it possible for me to have a job. Because, see, up until then, people were strumming. Herman’s Hermits were singing, and Peter Noone was looking pretty. But all of a sudden instead of strumming the guitar, these guys [Cream] were into digging in. That was a whole other world. And I saw them on acid at the Fillmore. At that time I was imitating Townshend, smashing the guitars up in the Vagrants – you know, that whole act with the smoke bombs and everything. Dave doesn’t believe me that I was using smoke bombs and flash boxes in ’68. I saw Eric on acid, and I said, “I better shit or get off the pot.” In other words, learn to play the guitar without smashing it. And I learned. I got a vibrato that night. I didn’t have one up until then. That was the beginning of it. So Eric was the start of a whole new ballgame for me.

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How do you do your vibrato?

Like you jerk off. Exactly. It’s a little crude, isn’t it?

Middle finger?

Yeah, but I use all my fingers. I see a lot of guitarists who just use the finger that they want to vibrato on. I use every one. That’s the thing I never understood – I see guys use the vibrato [picks up guitar], a lot of San Francisco guys, and they just do it like that [uses just one unsupported finger to shake the string]. But if you’re gonna use it, why not use the whole fucking hand? [Hits a note and uses his ring, middle, and index finger together to add vibrato]. Because that’s all power there. Put your hand on my hand [I do it]. Can you feel which muscle is doing it? [Plays vibrato.] Hendrix had a beautiful vibrato. [Plays the riff Hendrix did just after he sang, “Oh, shucks, foxy lady.”]. Yeah. It’s all in the wrist. It sounds real corny, but it’s like jerking off.

Did you start off playing blues?

My roots are The Who – I mean, rock and roll as it is from them. I don’t have roots that go back to blues and all that. I learned guitar by watching the Beatles and the Stones, like everybody else. None of this bullshit where, “Yeah, I used to listen to the old blues guys down in the Delta, hell, aw, shit.” No. Modern rock and roll is my roots. You don’t have to be an old black man to have the blues. You know, you lose your old lady, you owe the government, you this and that, you got blues. You can be Howard Hughes and have the blues, you know. Everything is, as Einstein says, relative. A lot of guys, blues artists, that’s why they used to resent white guys playing blues. Because they thought, “Wow. Nobody dug ’em when we played it.” What, they didn’t believe we had the blues? They see a white kid playing it, aw, he’s serious. All of a sudden, these old blues guys are thanking God the white kids play their music. Somebody did. Jack Bruce told me that his greatest thrill was when – who wrote “I’m So Glad”? Skip James?

Yeah.

Skip James’ wife wrote him a letter thanking them for doing “I’m So Glad,” because she got royalties from it that we astronomical. She thanked them for doing the song, because that money saved her. She was dead broke. So thank God that we picked up on their music.

Do you enjoy country guitar?

I like Weldon Myrick, the pedal steel player for that 615 band [Area Code 615]. Oh, he’s got some licks, boy. If I could play some of those pedal licks on a guitar – that’s something. Those licks are great. Major country licks – I love that.

Do you play around with country music?

Nah. Just a little bit. You know what I like – it’s obvious, right? It’s all the same. Just one note difference between country and blues – you know, minor or major. [Sings “Give me a home far away from home.” [Leslie picks up the new issue of Guitar Player, which I brought along, and studies at the Ted Nugent photo on the cover.]

He’s always playing that Gibson guitar.

Yeah. He uses Fender amps, though. Yeah, all them Twin Reverbs – six of ’em. Oh! That’s a lot of that terrible sound.

In the interview, Ted says he wants to “make people’s ears bleed.”

Yeah. And he’s a great guitarist, Ted! He really is. But he plays such crazy . . . It’s funny, but he’s making money, so good for him. I hope all my friends make millions, you know? With making it now, God damn! Like putting it down, like I said before. When all the rock and roll comes on, my roommate Dave can name every group. It’s almost like our parents, when my mother would say to me, “What do you listen to that crap for?” Really, it’s like different eras and times. It’s a new wave. It doesn’t matter if you play good vibratos anymore. It doesn’t matter if you’re a beautiful guitarist – you know what I mean?

Yes, but there’s a need for it.

Yeah. Hey, you got criticized pretty heavily for having Kiss on the cover. I believe they have every right in the world to be on the cover of it.

That was our biggest-selling issue. For the first time, the magazine was carried in a lot of record stores.

I believe it! I’ll tell you something: I believe they have every right in the world to be on the cover. They’re guitarists in the biggest group of its kind. To be able to bullshit that many people?

They’ve sold 12 million records.

And there ain’t a memorable lick on any of ’em. But somehow they did it, and I give them credit. As long as you accept ads from Gibson, you’ve got to accept ads from anybody. Kiss play Gibson – you know what I mean? [Flips through the magazine.] I wish somebody would invent a thing that kept an electric guitar in tune – a device that stopped your guitar from going out of tune.

There is one.

Where? Not a strobe.

Let me introduce you to the Floyd Rose. I did this article on the Hendrix imitator, Randy Hansen . . .

How is he?

Brings tears to your eyes.

Is he that good?

Yeah.

Where’s he from?

Seattle. And he works his ass off. He doesn’t take a break between songs.

Like Hendrix-type stuff?

Yeah, he does Hendrix songs note-for-note, exactly.

Is he doing good?

Yeah, he gets sell-out shows. Anyway, he uses a Strat, and he’s got a device on his guitar that allows him to use the vibrato arm to make the strings go limp, beat on them, take them back up, and the guitar will be exactly in tune.

Is that what Eddie Van Halen uses too?

Van Halen’s got the same setup.

What does it do?

This guy in Seattle, Floyd Rose, invented it.

It only works with vibrato guitars?

No, it works for any guitar. I’ll show you. [I flip through the July 1979 issue to my interview with Randy Hansen, which includes a close-up photo of the Floyd Rose locking-tremolo device.] Here it is.

What is it?

It’s a special tailpiece and locking nut.

He molds them?

Yeah. He installs them on the guitar, and it clamps down on the strings. In other words, two pieces of metal come down and completely hold the strings at both ends. So the playing length of the string doesn’t pass over anything. So, in essence, the strings are almost welded in place on both ends. Once you tune the guitar, you use an Allen wrench to tighten the clamps.

And no matter what you do, it won’t go out of tune, huh?

That’s right. Randy Hansen says he can go a couple of days without tuning. Eddie Van Halen has one, the guy in Heart.

Where do you get it?

From Floyd Rose in Seattle. You send your guitar up to him and he puts them on.

Wow.

He tried to sell it to Fender, I heard, but Fender wasn’t interested.

That’s incredible!

It’s a simple idea. And you don’t even need ball-ends on your strings. You can buy bales of string and cut them to length.

Wow. That’s incredible. Boy.

###

At this point, Leslie and I decided to call it a day. He invited me to continue next week, so six days later, on July 26, 1979, I returned to his Ben Lomand home. Leslie began our interview by playing me a tape of a straight 12-bar blues tune he’d written a day or two earlier. Played on acoustic guitar with electric slide fills reminiscent of Mick Taylor, it began, “Well, the rent is due . . . .”

Good song.

I wrote that song for the IRS! [Leslie sings along to the chorus, “Well, I ain’t gonna pay, I ain’t gonna pay no more. Well, I ain’t gonna pay, I ain’t gonna pay no more. I’m gonna give it to my baby, and walk right out that door.”] An octave divider comes in on the solo. I don’t know if this guy I wrote it for wants to do it. I’m trying to figure out if I should give it to him for what he paid me to do it. [Song ends.] I just recorded it on Wednesday, and I didn’t know what it was gonna be like before I did it. I thought it was just gonna be a joke, and I’d go in there half-assed. But I don’t play half-assed. Even without trying, it came out like that. So I don’t want to just give it to him for the $500 before I find out . . . Dig this. Steve did one of the sessions, right? I told the guy he couldn’t use my name or nothin’. The guys said, “Well, Steve said I could use his name for one point” [of the album sales]. I said, “Do you know what fuckin’ one point is worth on your thing? About half of a subway token. If you want it, you pay the cash.” Now, Steve’s thing was ridiculous. He just conformed to whatever the guy wanted. He did as straight a blues as you possibly can. I’m trying to make a joke out of it, because that’s what it is. You know? It couldn’t be serious.

What does he want to give you for it?

Well, nothing. He said, “I realize that if we put it out, you want all the royalties.” But before I let him put it out, I want to find out if it’s worth anything. I wanted to put like fifty people singing “We ain’t gonna pay . . .” Remember like the Beatles, “Hey, Jude”?

“All You Need Is Love.”

Yeah, “All You Need Is Love.” Same thing.

Yeah. Hang on to that song. Keep your publishing, no matter what.

Yeah, it’s my song. And I swear to you, man, I wrote the song in five minutes. I went to a studio, and the guy told me to write the song and he’d give me $250 the next time I came down to rehearsal. I came in the next day and I said, “Well, shit.” So I ran and got a pad, I scratched it out, came in, and gave it to the guy, and he said, “Okay.” I was laughing afterwards. I had to tell him, “You know, I wrote this now.” Hey, I found out that at advertising companies, if somebody comes up with a slogan that’s real good that’s real quick, they don’t want it. They want it to take time. At Ford, one of those things was right off the bat, and they couldn’t use it because the person paying for all the advertising wouldn’t want to know that they came up with it the first crack around. What’s he spending millions of bucks for?

Mick Ralphs said that he writes all of his songs in under five minutes.

I’m sure. Because once you start getting a lick out, you just keep going. You’ll find the chords and finish the progression.

What do you find harder to do – the lick or the words?

I never wrote words. I just learned in the last two years to write words. I wrote a couple of songs by myself in Mountain, but I always had to have help.

Like on “Mississippi Queen” . . .

“Mississippi Queen”? I had all the music, chords, and lick. That song was already a song. Corky had that from his other group. It was one-chord, disco. It was like, “Mississippi Queen, chicka, ching, ching” [scats the rhythm guitar sound commonly used in disco songs]. And I put a lick on it, obviously. I snorted something really nasty, something that I’ll remember the rest of my life, and that’s how I wrote it.

“Mississippi Queen”?

Yeah, stoned out of my mind. Boy, we were so fucked up. I was in the bedroom, he was in the living room, and I was yelling “How about this?” We were just shouting shit back and forth. “Yeah, it’s alright! Whatever you want, man.” I swear to God. When we did the track, Felix threw it out one day. He didn’t like it. Then he put his name on it the next time because he stuck a little note in here and there. You know what he stuck in there and got credit for? That little Steve Knight piano part – that little stinky thing that fucks the record up, in my opinion. That little tiny rinky-dink [sings the piano fill]. Just that, and he took 25% of that song. Felix is a legend in his spare time. He’s a legend in his own mind. Really, he was. But I learned more from that guy than anybody else. Hey, you can print every fuckin’ thing I’m saying. I’m not putting the guy down. He was a genius to me. But he also owned the record company, publishing, management, was in the group for half of what we made, owned the production company. And, to top it off, the record company.

And I happened to be the artist that got Felix’s Windfall [record label] on Bell Records. I was the first album – Leslie West Mountain. I was the first album for Windfall Columbia – West, Bruce & Laing. And I was the first album on Phantom – The Great Fatsby – for Bud Prager. I was the first album on all of their private label deals. The RCA deal was worth $2 million to Bud Prager, just on that alone. And I was the first album on all of them subsidiary deals. And I do not want to be with a subsidiary if I’m gonna do a group. I just don’t want it anymore. I want the luxury of being with the main label, even though subsidiaries are good – we did it with Bell, and they never had a gold album before. The Box Tops’ “The Letter” – that was their first gold record [single], but it wasn’t a gold album. They never had a gold album. So we did it in spite of what restricted airplay we had – 12:00 at night to 6:00 in the morning.

But you got the gold album?

Oh, yeah. For Mountain Climbing, Woodstock II, and Nantucket Sleighride. In fact, I had three managers in Mountain – Felix, Bud Prager, who manages Foreigner, and Gary Kurfirst, who managed Peter Tosh.

That’s a lot of managers.

30%. Premier was taking their 10%. That’s 40. [The phone rings, Leslie takes the call.] Oh, boy. The guy, Lucky, is from Arkansas and Texas, but his family was related to that guy Jim Garrison, the attorney with Kennedy and Oswald and all that. He knows so much about the Kennedy assassination, man. You couldn’t believe what he knows. And that was definitely a conspiracy. Hey, come on – one bullet?

Where were you when President Kennedy was assassinated?

Rockefeller Center, right by a limousine. I was delivering jewelry. I worked in a jewelry exchange in New York. I made women’s engagement rings. I see a chauffeur by 30 Rock, and he’s crying. A black guy. I said, “What’s the matter?” He said, “They shot the president!” I came over, and I see all these drivers are there, waiting for the execs from NBC, and everybody’s hysterical in the street. It was incredible. Where were you?

I was in sixth grade, in a Catholic school.

Kennedy – ooh, that’s God.

The principal came on the loudspeaker and said, “Boys and girls, we have something you should listen to.” And they put on the radio news report. Kids started praying and crying.

What a great guy he was, Kennedy. It’s funny – he’s the only guy I ever felt like I had a relationship with, like, why should I vote for somebody? I couldn’t vote at the time, but I wished I could have. The only time I have voted is for McGovern. My wife made me do it on absentee ballot, just because of Nixon. Yeah, she made me do that. I said, “Why is it so important?” She said, “Please, you’ve gotta vote for him.” I wasn’t following it. Then when Watergate started, I got into it, boy. I got into it so heavy, and I was so thrilled I voted McGovern. Didn’t help. I think me and you were the only ones that voted. And I played in Washington, D.C., the night Nixon won, and what a drag that was – Constitution Hall, yet. We were so depressed.

You were never very political.

Nah-uh. Fuck it. I really resented Abbie Hoffman getting up at Woodstock. I’m glad Townshend whacked him. I resented the fact that somebody used – those people didn’t come there for any other reason but to hear them sounds, man. And to get all those people there to hear those sounds, you don’t come onstage and use it to make a speech. Because they didn’t want to hear that speech. And if you would have told them that you’re gonna hear a speech during The Who’s act, nobody would have showed up. So that’s why I resent that. I’m just sorry he didn’t hit him hard enough. I saw it. I was right there.

What happened?

Abbie Hoffman grabbed the mike and said, “I want to talk to you all.” And Townshend – fuck you! He hit him with the guitar on the head. Hoffman was gone, right into the audience, man. Almost killed him. But he said, “Our stage. When we hit the stage, it is our stage.” And he is right. He earned the right to get control of that stage. Anyway. Hey, I’m really glad I met you, man. I haven’t met any real knowledgeable people around here to talk to about guitars. I’ve got another MPC to show you, they sent me. It’s a funny color, but it’s a new shape that’s nice. It’s got a Les Paul cutaway on the bottom. You know what a 330 looks like, right? Well, it’s got a little one of those on top. It’s nice.

How does it sound?

Beautiful. I’ve got a compressor module for it. We’ll go out in the back there – I’ve got the amp set up in the back. [Leslie leads me into a closet-sized room and demonstrates the guitar by playing “Mississippi Queen” for me at very close range – so close, I could feel his breath on my face as he sang the lyrics. We return to the living room.]

I’d like to ask you some biographical questions.

Go ahead.

You got kicked out of ten schools. How did that happen?

I didn’t really like what they were teaching me. I went to private schools, and in private schools you had to have a certain average to get in. And every one I tried to get in, I knew it was a matter of time until I was gonna get kicked out. In the meantime, I could just skate along and not have to go. I was living in Forest Hills, across from the tennis stadium. And my parents separated, so they moved to Jersey. I told them to move to Jersey, because I had three sisters, so let us all starve together. We lived in Long Island, a rich section. I didn’t want to live there. So we moved to Jersey, and I hated it.

How old were you when you moved?

13 – no, 15. Something like that. I’d just gotten my Strat I bought with my bar mitzvah money. I wanted to play guitar in one of the schools, and they didn’t have a guitar in the band, so they asked me to play a drum. And I told them what to do with the drum. It was just one school after another, getting kicked out. Because I didn’t have the grades, and there was no musical opportunity. That’s what it basically was: I was uninterested to learn about anything except the guitar.

So you spent a lot of time playing?

Yeah. Hell, that’s all I could do. And then I quit school and started becoming a jewelry apprentice, just to make some money, because we hadn’t started the Vagrants yet.

How old were you when the Vagrants started?

In my teens. Everybody in the Vagrants learned to play together. You know, we didn’t know nothing together, and we learned a little bit of something together.

Who were the guys in the Vagrants?

Four guys I went to school with. My brother. They were all actually three years younger than me. They were his age. Yeah, that’s why I quit school. I couldn’t make it in school. I went to a lot of private schools. I didn’t have enough grade marks to get out of the tenth grade if you added it all up. It was funny.

Were you a troublemaker?

Not really, because I just didn’t go. When I was there, I did cause trouble, only because of boredom. It’s the way they teach, you know. They ask you dates about shit and crap like that. They ask you questions they know the answers to. Why don’t they tell you, so you learn? And now you can use calculators – you know what I mean? It’s like Felix was a teacher to me. Recently in Florida we had one of our things where he was in there in the control room and I was out there playing. We used to have good things like that, teach your student. But this time there was a line that I’d come up with, and he said, “You know, it would be real hip to play a harmony to it. It could be something monumental, like ‘Layla.’ You know, that kind of line.” So I spent hours. I don’t know how to read music, I don’t know where notes are, so I had to figure it all out and he’s helping me and this and that. Man, I’m saying to myself that there’s a whole Eventide rack in there with all the things – a harmonizer and everything else. It would be a lot easier if we use a harmonizer – it would have taken two seconds, because I already played the damn line, it was done. It was like a very, very simple thing, like a kid saying to his teacher, “Why can’t I use a calculator?” “No. Figure it out yourself.” Why? That ain’t important. The answer’s important. And that was the thing – he didn’t want use the machine. And I sweated my ass off, working to get those notes. It wasn’t no easy thing for me. But I guess that’s what he enjoyed. I enjoyed getting there at the end – it was very gratifying, I must admit. But fuck the gratification – I’d rather go for a doughnut.

When you were growing up, how did you learn the guitar? What part did you learn first?

I learned on a ukulele. Just by foolin’ around and watching Elvis Presley.

Chords first?

Yeah. Three-fingered chords. See, on a tenor guitar it’s real easy. You can get a big sound, and just play one- or two-finger chords. That’s what I was explaining to you last week. When I got that guitar I didn’t know what to do with them other two fingers. But a tenor guitar is great for a kid, because you get to hear a big sound if you can only play ukulele. And the kid doesn’t have the fingers to get all the way across the strings [on a 6-string guitar], but there’s a little skinny neck on a tenor. The guy in the Mouseketeers used to play a tenor guitar, the guy with the mouse ears on – Jimmie Dodd. That was a tenor guitar! I wanted that so bad. And that’s what made me get a tenor guitar, but not with the mouse ears. It was a Stella. [Shouts “Stella” like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.]

How did you start learning leads?

It was when Cream had just become #1 across the boards with Disraeli Gears, and Felix is producing the Vagrant’s single. I had been listening to Eric for a while. I came in with this sound, with the fuzz tone and an amp, where I could get a lot of sustain. It sounded a little bit like the Marshall, but didn’t have nowhere near that – I mean, I saw Eric’s amps at the Murray the K Show. Did you see The Kids Are Alright? Pete Townshend’s talking about the Murray the K Show? Well, we did that Murry the K Show in New York. He did like eight show a day, four-and-a-half minutes an act. Mitch Ryder, The Who, Cream, the Vagrants, the Rascals, Wilson Pickett. It was incredible. On and off [snaps fingers], on and off [snaps fingers], all day long. I see these amps came in – it said Marshall in the front, it was kicked in, this and that. This group [Cream] comes out and I hear, “I feel free,” and I hear these drums going and I hear the guitar. [Sings line.] And I said, “Oh, damn!” And I’m still imitating The Who, and they were on the show. So I saw Eric play, versus Townshend, and I said, “Time to progress.” And that’s what did it. The leads, I learned real quick. After I saw Cream on acid at the Fillmore East – that’s what made me shit or get off the pot. I didn’t have a vibrato until I heard Eric play. I mean, I swear I did not even have a vibrato until I heard Eric’s Fresh Cream. I learned quick.

And you use three fingers usually.

Yeah, all the time. Never do a vibrato like that [plays a vibrato with just his ring finger]. You never get as much power with one finger. Everything in back of your fretting finger is dead, so why not use your whole hand?

When you first learn leads, did you work off of chords?

Always off chords. Because all my rhythms, they’re line chords. I don’t just play chords, and I don’t just play lines. I play lines into chords or off chords. And they always do resolve into a lead if you take them far enough.

What were your favorite chords to work around?

I don’t know the names of all the chords. [Picks up guitar and plays a partial A chord.] I call this The Who A – it’s a modal chord, neither major or minor. So you can play like this [plays a country lick in A] – that’s legit – or a minor [plays a bluesy riff, then quotes the descending flatpicked pattern in Cream’s “Badge”]. I like to play in E. I never learned to use these fingers, either [points to his left-hand middle and little fingers]. I only use these two [indicates index and ring fingers, then plays a solo]. Now, I can use these other fingers like this [uses all four fingers to play chords and do a scale-like line], but I don’t play jazz, though. I hate jazz. [Launches into Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.”] I like following the basic, simple chords.

How did your onstage guitar solo originate?

What do you mean?

Like that piece “Guitar Solo” on a couple of the albums.

Oh, by myself? Kill some time onstage. You know, it’s funny. That thing, I think, got me my record deal. We were playing out in Long Island with Blood, Sweat & Tears.

The Vagrants?

Yeah. No – this was Mountain, but it was an organ player and a drummer that I had dug up. And this was the first gig of Mountain. Friday we played with Jeff Beck – my manager was the promoter, so he threw us on the show. I played with Jeff Beck on a Friday, and we sucked. No bass player – foot pedals on the organ, like jazz-rock. That’s why I hate jazz – I’m telling you right now. Bad memories. And I thought, “Oh, shit. Thank God Felix isn’t coming tonight.” So what I did was, there was this group that he was managing, and I got my manager to put them on the show and paid them a lot of money. So I knew that Felix would think, “Wow, I gotta come and see my own group if they’re making that kind of bread.” And he came all the way out to Long Island. I got him to see us because we were going on after his group, and they couldn’t touch the equipment, so I knew he had to wait. And he saw me get two standing ovations that night, and nobody knew who I was. So he told me to get rid of the drummer and organist, and that’s how I did my very first album. He came in and said, “Well, I’ll get a drummer and I’ll play bass,” and that was that.

How long after this was the Leslie West Mountain album cut?

Two weeks. I had all the songs. I’d been working on them. It was just me and Felix and Norman Smart. I had a guy I was writing with, John Ventura – he wrote the lyrics and I wrote the music. “Long Red” was one of them.

When did you begin writing songs?

For that first album.

You didn’t write any before?

No. I didn’t know how. I really didn’t. That was the beginning of it all. You know, Eric said in an interview that he hasn’t really advanced on lead much, and he said he did that because he got into songwriting. He stopped playing lead as opposed to sitting down and trying to write. And I can respect that, because he’s come up with some nice tunes.

When do you play guitar the best? Have you had times where you feel you’re peaking?

Mm hmm. West, Bruce & Laing, over in England when we were putting that group together. The rehearsal tapes that we did, which nobody ever really got to hear, were great. It was the first nights we had gotten together, and everybody was feeling great. It was coming together. We had done each other’s songs. We had done “Theme from an Imaginary Western,” all of Jack’s stuff. He did some of mine. Hearing him sing “Mississippi Queen” is incredible! And those were the original tapes. Yeah, I really thought I really gave on that. That’s what I was trying to do.

How long before that had Jack left Cream?

Well, the last group he was with was the Jack Bruce Band with Larry Coryell and Mitch Mitchell, for that solo album of his. But he hadn’t done anything. This was the first rock and roll band since Cream.

What did you feel, playing with him?

I was feeling on top of the world.

Did you hit it off right away?

Mm hmm. I met him at the Fillmore, when Mountain played with Jack. What happened was Stigwood didn’t tell Jack he wasn’t headlining. Mountain was headlining. And Felix took very great pride in the fact that our name was over Jack Bruce’s name. Jack had to come to the Fillmore and see on the marquee that he wasn’t headlining, and he was real mad. He’d never met me, but he saw Felix’s name over his, and he said, “Whoa!” So Jack came in and did his set, and he did “Sunshine of Your Love” and wouldn’t come back for the encore. And the place was going bananas. I never saw anybody go over like that in my life. First time I’d seen him since Cream. I said, “Shit. How are we gonna go on now?” And he said he [imitates Bruce’s Scottish accent] “didn’t have any more fuckin’ tunes. We haven’t rehearsed enough.” I said, “Whoa! I like that guy!” Between shows, Felix wouldn’t talk to him. But I was talking to him. Jack asked me to show Coryell how I get the sound, because he was playing a little amp that wasn’t big enough for the Fillmore. So I let him use all my Sunns. And he went out to Sunn and he bought the same Sunn amps. I was solid with Jack, and we hit it off right away. Yeah, it was great.

Did he play with you that night?

Did we jam? No. I didn’t play with Jack until we went to England. We went over to his house for his birthday, and me and him went upstairs to play in the studio up there. He was playing piano and I was playing guitar. I said, “Hey. One day we gotta play together.” So when I went to England with Corky after Mountain broke up, I knew who I was gonna call, but I wasn’t sure. I knew if I called Jack, I wouldn’t have to call anybody else, because there’s the group – me and Corky and Jack. And I called Joe Cocker and I called somebody else, did that whole thing – we would have had to get this guy, that guy. So I said I’ll call Jack, and he said yes. He didn’t even care who the drummer was. I told him I had one. He had some dates left to do with Jon Heisman and Chris Spedding, John Marshall. And he canceled them. We started the group. The fondest thing I have to remember about all this is putting that together.

Did anyone ever talk about Ginger Baker?

Never. Except Felix. One day he told me that when Cream were playing in a club in England, the set was over about 4:00 in the morning. People started leaving. All of a sudden they started turning back to come in. It turned out that Jack had dove into the drumset, strangling Ginger. They had a fight, a real bad fight.

What were they angry about?

Ginger was hitting him with sticks in the head during the show. Who knows? Nobody knows. But they created such a great crowd of people coming back to see what the commotion was. Yeah, he told me that. Oh, and one time Felix had a fight with Ginger. There was an article where Felix said that Jack was the most talented writer in the band, and Ginger thought he was. [Laughs.] And he got mad at Felix for saying it! He fucking came at Felix at the studio, man, in an alley, waiting. He said [in British accent], “C’mon, man. We’re gonna go it.” They started wresting and shit, and Ginger pulled a knife on him. Really, that’s what Felix said – I swear. Felix said he took him and got him down. I tend to doubt that. I saw Mr. Baker, and he is a bad-looking and tough motherfucker! Oh, boy. That’s all I use to do is ask Jack stories about Eric, and I asked Felix stories about Jack. And they seemed to both tell me stories about Ginger.

How did Eric get along with Jack and Ginger?

He got along better with Ginger than Jack. Jack was sort of a schooled musician, and Eric wasn’t. But Eric could play anything any schooled musician could. And Jack wrote “Theme from an Imaginary Western” before Cream was together, and Eric didn’t want to do it because he said it was too complicated. And that was my favorite song for doing a solo of all time. So I sort of wonder about Eric in that light, because why would he not want to do that song, unless he just resented Jack too much. You know how Cream got signed to Atlantic Records?

No.

They were part of the Bee Gees deal. Stigwood had the Bee Gees, and the only way they would give the Bee Gees to Atlantic was if they took this other group that he had, Cream. A throw-in! Isn’t that something? What to do with the group? They were supposedly the crème de la crème of English studio musicians. I’d never seen anybody playing rock and roll with double bass drums, except for [Keith] Moon. Yeah, that was a turning point in my life, seeing them.

Did you hear the album first? Fresh Cream?

Yeah. Murray the K had a copy of it right away. And you could vote on your records. You see, that was great. You could call up and you could register your vote for new albums that came out. They had the imports, they had Americans, and you could actually see whether or not your vote meant anything. You could make a record get played or not get played. And they played Fresh Cream. Fresh Cream got eight-hundred-and-some-odd votes to stay. It was incredible. They couldn’t do any wrong. It was like God had landed. Somebody saw something else to do with an electric guitars other than just strum. Did you ever wonder why humbucking pickups have so much power? Who ever used it? They certainly didn’t get any of the sounds we’re getting now then. So why were those pickups so powerful?

You went after a powerful sound right away.

Yeah, those Juniors had that sound. Those pickups on there, those little triangular-ended ones – those back ones – they have more power than the other ones, the sunburst humbuckings. But they had one sound. Now, if you take out the capacitor in there, you can stop the tone control from doing anything. All you get is full treble out of it, and that’s how I got that sound a lot. Bass tone I would use more or less by playing up where the bass pickup should have been. The bass tone is the bass pickup. One a three-way switch, it would be the bass switch, and I used to turn all the bass off, all the treble up. And that tone, which also Eric used in “Outside Woman’s Blues” [sings the Cream riff] – he used to call that the “woman tone.” It’s soft like a woman. It’s not a biting electric tone. I call it a “belly tone.” It’s a beautiful, beautiful, vibrato-sounding, saxophonish lead, but it doesn’t hurt your ear at all. Total bass, but nice tone. Tone I learned from Eric too, yeah. Yeah, he had tone, finesse, class. Never blew a lick.

When was the first time you saw Eric Clapton play?

At the Fillmore, on acid.

Was that Cream’s first tour?

Well, they played the Café Au Go Go. Also on that tour I went into Café Au Go Go to see, one night, Jimi Hendrix, Elvin Bishop, Mike Bloomfield, Eric Clapton, B.B. King, Albert King. Everybody got up and jammed that night. And everybody got up and played a progression and played everything they knew. Bloomfield played everything he knew, Eric got up and played everything he knew. Hendrix plugged in all his pedals, played everything he knew. B.B. King got up there last, and he hit one night and sustained it through the whole progression. And walked off. It was incredible! After all them guys played 90 million things, what left was there to play? I thought that was so hip. In other words, he couldn’t do anything else, so he only did what he could do. And the one thing that he could do worked. It’s incredible. He can’t play that fast, you know, but he can sustain notes good. That was exciting, boy. The place went nuts, because all he did after all of that was [sings note]. One note, boy. Ultra hip.

When was the first time you played the Fillmore?

The Fillmore West I played the first time, with Albert King and Johnny Winter. That was my first gig. This was after the Leslie West solo album and right before Woodstock. We played Fillmore West, The Whisky, Kinetic Playground in Chicago, and Woodstock.

Who was in the band at the very beginning?

Norman Smart, Felix, and Steve Knight, an organ player who I never wanted in the band.

How soon after your first solo album did the band get together?

Pretty quick, because I told Felix we couldn’t miss.

Where did you rehearse?

New York. We had a loft – that place I brought Hendrix to. The Windfall loft. We got a lot of things accomplished there. Yeah, I told some good jokes up there. I got ripped off 19 times. It’s in a real groovy area, you know. In Manhattan, by the trucks and the docks, where you either get shit or your dick or blood on your knife.

Where did you live in New York?

Manhattan – Park Avenue.

Who did you jam with?

I didn’t. We didn’t jam in those days, man. Jamming I didn’t learn about until I went out to San Francisco. I swear to God. Vanilla Fudge were my friends, and they came out here and told me all about this jamming shit, you know, and peace and love and no dressing up for the stage – you know, just jeans. I said, “Wow. Those people must be laid back.” I came out here [to California] and I couldn’t believe it. I came back, and I said, “Shit, I hate Ashbury.” You know, I really hated it [Haight Ashbury].

Yeah?

Yeah, because I came out here with the acid and the freaks bothering you. Couldn’t even walk down the street. I loved the period – I didn’t like the area. It looked to me like a place where people can go get stoned and be left alone, you know.

Did you believe in the hippie philosophy?

What was that?

Would you consider yourself . . .

No way! Yeah, peace and love as they’re stealing your tires. [Laughs.]

You always seemed to have more a street-smart image.

Yeah, well, I was from the street, man. But I didn’t believe any of that crap. I hate political motivation. Why would anybody want to put themselves up in front of all them people and try to be good all the time. Who can be good all the time? I can’t be good at all. I don’t trust ’em. Why Jimmy Carter wants to subject himself to what he’s going through now is just beyond me. Are you hungry? [Leslie and I go into the kitchen and he pulls out a box of Hostess Ho-Ho’s, some homemade zucchini bread, and diet orange soda.] Who turned you on to our records?

Actually, I was turned on to Mountain in Detroit, because you were promoted heavily there.

Yeah, we played there. And I’ll tell you where we did real great – WABX . Are you familiar with that [FM radio] station? Dave Dixon? He’s a friend of my wife. I was really friends with him. I heard Dave Dixon’s in Florida now.

When did Mountain have its best moment?

The most exciting moment we ever had was in Memphis. We played the Mid-South Coliseum, and we were in the middle of the show somewhere. And we just blew the place apart. Grand Funk was on, all the heavy groups were on. And we did this “Stormy Monday” thing, people reacted incredible, and “Mississippi Queen” went to #1 in Memphis. That was biggest thrill I had. The best we were, I think, was on that Atlanta Pop Festival “Stormy Monday.” Doing what we did best, I would think it’s there, for the live show.

What made Mountain break up?

Drugs, attitude, attitude because of drugs, old ladies – all the usual shit. But at first it broke up because Felix didn’t want to work on the road. He was making a lot of money, and Corky and I wanted to. We didn’t tell him we were gonna call Jack, because as soon as we did, he’d get really pissed off. Jack told him on the phone one day, “You might have to go through what I went through, Felix, being by myself as the outsider.” It was a very emotional moment. But like I said, he chose to not go on the road. As soon as he did that, I ran to Jack. What would you have done? You know who you want to play with. And Jack was so relieved at the time. Wow. As soon as Jack thinks he’s getting commercial, he folds up. And that’s what we were – we could have been a commercial band.

What was your drug involvement?

[Chokes on his soda.] You mean financially? Drug wise? You want to know what my stash was? Cocaine and heroin and morphine. In Germany – oh, boy. That’s when I got started with the morphine.

Were you with Mountain?

Yeah. No, West, Bruce & Laing. It was incredible. I’d never had it in my life. All guitar players, for some reason, gravitated to – well, I shouldn’t say guitarists, although there are more guitarists than drummers – you get so fucking bored on the road, and it happens to be the only drug that works. You know, it’s too bad, but anything that good is that bad. Some people can handle it, and some can’t. I couldn’t. Everybody tried it. We all got together, and a friend of ours from another group who I will not mention came through with it. It was Chinese brown rocks that were big in England, and we all got into it at the same time and got strung out at the same time. Except it was so pure, coming back here was like a laugh. And that was the beginning of that. It was always something, though. If it wasn’t drugs it would be something else. But with drugs comes attitudes. You see, people think, “Oh, that guy’s changed.” But it’s not the guy changing, it’s the drug making the personality change. Flower of evil – that was from [Charles Baudelaire’s] Les Fleurs du Mal.

What eventually happened with the drugs?

It was too much of a hassle. I was spending more time worrying about getting them than what I could have been doing. I had to ask myself what was more important. Like I said, that guitar – the MPC guitar – had a lot to do with straightening me out, funny as it may seem. Something is a catalyst. You need something. When I saw it, I said, “Hey, it’s different.” A regular guitar wouldn’t have done me no good. I was sick of it. This had a little something to play with, just something to cut your head off. And that’s what did it.

After the Leslie West Band, what did you want to do?

After the Leslie West Band, with Mick Jones?

That was in ’75, right?

Uh-huh.

And how long did you have that?

Oh, shit. I don’t know. A year or two? I can’t remember. I don’t even know. From ’75 to now, it’s like, short. Seems like a couple of months for me.

What have you been doing?

I took two years out to get my head together, and that’s it. I was living in Milwaukee.

Did you do any playing?

With Lowell George, right before he died, man. We went to Madison. We went to a club, Funky’s. I got up onstage that night and played with him. They asked me to come and do a couple of dates, because the band was really sluggish and Lowell didn’t do much. He wasn’t hardly singing. I didn’t go, but he told me that he was going to build a studio out here and he wanted me to come to the studio and check it out. He was going to possibly produce an album or something like that, and then he died [in June 1979]. I got a tape of me and him playing acoustic slide together at that club. It means a lot more now.

He was working with Mick Taylor right before he died too.

I don’t know. Was he?

Yeah, he’s on Mick Taylor solo album that just came out.

Yeah, he loved Mick’s slide playing, because of the vibrato. I talked to him about that. He loved vibrato. Have you heard Mick Taylor’s album?

Oh, yeah.

Is it good?

It’s great.

Is it really exceptional or is it . . .

It’s exceptional.

What kind of oriented?

He starts out with “Leather Jacket,” a sort of kick in the pants to the Rolling Stones . . .

Who’s singing?

Mick Taylor. He has a good voice.

Really? Rock and roll? Real rock and roll?

Yeah.

Jazz on there too?

Yeah, a bit of rock-jazz. He goes into acoustic blues and comes in on bottleneck slide, Stones-style. He also plays a slow blues, Chicago-style, a real cooker. His guitar playing is fabulous – so many tones.

That’s great, man.

He plays almost everything himself.

Drums too?

No, he’s got a drummer.

Is he playing bass too?

One some cuts.

It ain’t on the charts, is it?

I haven’t seen it, no.

No. I don’t think anybody really remembers who Mick Taylor is.

But the album is superb.

That’s great, man. Great. It’s him, Peter Green, Eric, Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page – Jimmy Page not as much as Jeff Beck. Jeff Beck, he has style, you know. You know, I heard that Eric used to be an extrovert, with the windmill thing like Townshend and everything. That’s why he’s so introverted now.

I’m surprised you’ve never met Eric.

We’ve come close a lot, but I hold him as a hero.

It would be great to hear you to jam.

I’d love that. When you respect anybody as much as I respect him. . . [Looks at the Guitar Player magazine with the photo of the Floyd Rose device.] Yeah, send that guy a letter, that Floyd something up in Seattle. Boy, that’s a great thing, man. It definitely deserves to be patented. Can you imagine, the guy [Randy Hansen] says in the article, “Hey, I tune my guitar for four days, and it don’t go out.” Isn’t that incredible, using a stick [vibrato bar]? I figured out how it works – those pinchers holding the strings. The tuning gear – nothing ever comes near there. The pinch and everything is put in the middle of the string, so it’s still tight. That’s incredible.

That’s how Eddie Van Halen does it right now.

It’s funny how these young kids are into things like that. God knows what we were into. But look at the difference: Like now, you can go buy pickups, you can buy replacement parts. Where the hell was that a few years ago? Nobody thought that anybody could replace a part on a Gibson guitar. You know what I mean? I remember when Manny’s finally got some humbucking pickups in from Gibson – it was incredible. Me and the guitarist in Vanilla Fudge bought one. We had a Telecaster, and we tried to put a humbucking pickup in a Tele. We dug that guitar out with screwdrivers – we had nothing to cut it. And we just chopped it away, man. And we had Scotch-taped the pickup in, and it worked! It bucked a lot of hum. That’s what a humbucker is supposed to do – buck the hum.

Do you play much Stratocaster?

Aside from being my first guitar, no. I was a Gibson freak. I have a Strat in New York. I got it at my brother’s place. My National is there too. I remember one day Mick came in – Mick Jones had a Strat – and I hooked it up to my Marshalls. I’d never hooked up a Strat to that many Marshalls. I said, “There must be a reason everybody’s using them,” and it was great sound. The only thing is, boy, when I need to dig in on the treble tone and on them big, full chords, I never could get it out of a Strat. I’ve never tried it with the new, fatter pickups that distort. I suppose it’s probably good, but I’m enjoying the sound I am getting out of these MPC guitars so much, and I don’t think you can do that with a Strat. There’s not enough room in the body cavity for the modules. If you could, that would be great. You had an article in your magazine about vintage guitars. That’s why I went with the Juniors – because they were like, hey, great Les Pauls that were cheap. I couldn’t spend no thousand dollars on a guitar. I wouldn’t for principle.

Let me ask you about your acoustic guitars. What kind did you use on “Long Red”?

12-string Guild. Felix gave it to me. I also used it on “Because You Are My Friend.”

Is that the 12-string on the early albums?

Yeah.

What happened to that guitar?

The head cracked or something cracked. I had to go get the Ovation, I know, and I think it was because of that. The Ovation I got for free. They gave them to Townshend, me, and Clapton in the beginning – 12s and 6s – and they wouldn’t give them to anybody else, man. Henry at Manny’s got it for me. I sent Steve Marriot in there, funny enough. He came to the studio, and I said, “Look what I just got for nothing! Go to Henry at Manny’s.” He went and said [imitates British accent], “Leslie told me I could get a free guitar.” He said, “Well, tell him to go fuck himself. I didn’t tell him . . . .” He called me up and said, “What are you doing?! That ain’t for everybody! It’s just for you and a few other people.” He got real mad at me. I said, “Well, gee. I’m sorry.” So that’s why I got Steve a couple of guitars from St. Louis Music. He felt a little better.

Where was “Dreams of Milk and Honey” recorded?

In New York. I did that whole album [Leslie West, Mountain] in New York – a real shitty recording studio, Gotham Studios. I remember they got a great deal because it was a commercial studio. So they got a real cheap deal. Terrible sound. And to mix the fucking album was atrocious. We had to put machines on top of machines. Nothing was set up for mixing or anything. It was incredible. Did you like the sound on that album?

Not as much as Woodstock.

Yeah, it was very inferior sound, that album.

What guitar did you use for that first album?

Sunburst Junior, the one Felix gave me. I had a sunburst Junior before the white one, and at the third gig, right before Woodstock, the strap thing fell off and it cracked. So I had to go to Chicago and buy a guitar real quick, the one I mentioned to you I sold Steve Miller. It was a double-cutaway mustard. I didn’t like the sound of it. Every Junior sounds different, even if it’s the same pickup, same-looking guitar. They all sound different, they all have their own sound. I thought this Junior had the sound I was looking for – it didn’t, so I sold it. No – I cracked my mustard. I had a single-cutaway mustard, right, and that cracked and I went out and bought the double-cutaway. And Felix had his Junior on the road, and he gave it to me. Yeah. I never liked the double-cutaways. They had a much treblier sound. They didn’t have as much bottom as a one [single] cutaway.

What was your favorite Junior?

The white one.

What did you use it for?

West, Bruce & Laing – everything. One pickup took me through a career. Just on that one pickup. It was incredible

What kind of sound were you going for?

Whatever I could get. And it turned out I got what I got. I was using those Sunn Coliseums, and they were supposed to send me guitar tops. They never worked. And they finally sent me this P.A. top, and the P.A. top sounded great. I turned all the treble up on the amp, just put a little bass off. So it was full treble, and I turned the master all the way up and put the volume on 8, the master on 9, and the gain all the way up. And that’s how I had my guitar sound – they sent me the wrong top, a Coliseum P.A. top, and I tried it. And that’s how I got the sound. I had to use something.

How many amps would you use?

Six bottoms and three heads. One was a spare. 100-watt.

Would you have any effects devices?

No. I used to use a phase shifter on “Yasgur’s Farm” and some of that shit, but I didn’t like effects, except for the lines.

What about in the studio?

A phaser, Leslie. I got a way of hooking up a Leslie [rotating speaker] by going into a Hammond organ. You know, there’s a volume control on the organ, in a little box. If you tap-in an empty lead, an open lead, and tap it onto the amp section, you can overdrive the Leslie and make it sound like a Marshall with a Leslie. Because that Leslie is a 15-inch speaker, and Hammond organs are 12 volts – the pickup. A guitar pickup is only one-and-a-half volts, so you only have to turn the volume slightly and you open the guitar up, and my God! Try it one time. Go right into the Hammond organ, you solder the leads on where the volume pedal is, turn the organ on, set the stops, and then all you got to worry about is turning the Leslie on and off. You’re not connected to the organ, you’re just running through it with the power in the preamp.

Where did you use that?

On that song “Silver Paper” on Mountain Climbing.

Did you use it anywhere else?

Anywhere I could hook it up. Anytime I came into a studio, I said, “Ooh, quick – hook that thing up.” But you needed a B-3, and finally I bought a B-3, but it was a cut-down model, and I couldn’t get in the damn thing to hook it up. So . . .

What were your favorite solos with Mountain?

“Theme from an Imaginary Western,” from the very first Mountain album, Climbing. That solo – I don’t think I had another one. That was my very favorite, yeah.

Did Mountain play songs differently every night?

Yeah. Not the structure, but all we played within the framework was different. It was a conversation. In a way it was jazz. [We take a break. When we resume, Leslie brings up Mick Taylor’s new album.] I’ve got to hear Mick Taylor’s album now if it’s that good, man. He’s got an incredible amount of sounds. He played the SG and got a great sound out of it. Yes, I really respected Mick. Jack and him almost had a group, but it never came off. It was a jazz thing, though. That’s the thing with Jack – he can play rock and roll, but he can play jazz with anybody too. So I can understand why maybe he might have been starving for that too. Maybe he was that hungry for it. You could see that Eric is hungry for blues – he loves blues out of funky old guitars and amps. The big amps and all of that is a thing of the past. You walk in any music store, and even in your magazine, you see that small amps is on the way. Small components for your stereo, mini speakers. It’s coming. Small TVs, small cars. It’s all coming. Mini modular studios. Watch a guitar come all folded up and everything. A mini guitar. That’s what I thought a Junior was – a mini guitar – because in many cases, it did look like a mini. What else you got? Are we getting somewhere?

Just a couple of more questions on my list. What did you use on “Dream Sequence” on Flowers of Evil?

Sunburst Junior through one Sunn, a Coliseum P.A. head, tubes, and one 4×12 Sunn cabinet with the Eminences, and a Marshall 50-watt 8×10 and a Fender Twin.

Volume pedal?

No.

How did you create that effect in the beginning?

That’s my volume control on the Junior. I have that mastered, because I never could afford a pedal. Someone leant me his Morley, and shit, the thing makes you stand up crooked! You gotta go like this [demonstrates stepping on the volume pedal] to try to get it. I tried doing it sitting down, and it’s still hard. What you can do, though, is block it, so the pedal doesn’t have that much leeway. You can put something in there to make the pedal not go all the way down. Oh, I’m sorry, I did use a Bow-Wow pedal, a Schaller, that Jeff Beck uses. I used it on Leslie West Mountain album, on “Blind Man.” The tone I got on there was a Schaller Bow-Wow pedal. Instead of wah-wah, it’s [makes wah sound] bow-wow. [Sings the opening line of Jeff Beck’s “I Ain’t Superstitious” from Truth.]

What do you use for slide?

A lug wrench.

Like a Sears Craftsman?

A Sears. You can walk into any hardware store in the world and get one. You just have to try it on and get the right size for your finger. Now they make slides. They’re in all the stores. They’re not bad. Jas, you think we’re alright for today?

We sure are.

I’m a little tired. If you’re up here this weekend, give me a call and we’ll do something.

Well, Leslie, I’ve got to thank you for this interview.

I’m glad you gave me a call and came over. This has been a good interview. It was a nice talk.

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Epilogue

To spend some quality time with Leslie West today, check out his highly entertaining, star-laden The Sound and the Story DVD. Here’s a link to a preview: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8flmiQkHTdQ . You can also see him in this promo video for the new Dean Leslie West Signature Guitar: http://www.deanguitars.com/summer06/leslie_west_sig.php . His recent album Unusual Suspects, well worth searching out, is available from Amazon.com and most record stores. 

If you didn’t read this at http://jasobrecht.com , it’s been bootlegged! © 2012 Jas Obrecht. All rights reserved. This article may not be reprinted without author’s written permission. For information about reprints and licensing, send a message to Jas via the Contact button.

He was born James A. Lane in Ruleville, Mississippi, on June 3, 1924. “One guy that my mother stayed around with was Henry Rogers,” he explained. “I grabbed his name when I became a professional musician, and began performing under the name.” His first instrument was harmonica. After living in Atlanta, Memphis, West Memphis, and St. Louis, Rogers moved to Chicago in the early 1940s. In 1945, he began associating with Muddy Waters, whom he coached on guitar. Rogers blew harmonica in their earliest lineup, while Muddy and Claude “Blue Smitty” Smith handled guitars. Eventually Baby Face Leroy Foster became their first drummer. When Smith departed, Rogers brought in teenage harmonica ace Little Walter Jacobs and began concentrating on guitar. In short order, this lineup became Chicago’s cutting-edge blues band, rivaled only by Elmore James’ Broomdusters on a good night. “There were four of us,” Waters told Down Beat magazine, “and that’s when we began hitting heavy. Little Walter, Jimmy Rogers, and myself, we would go around looking for bands that were playing. We called ourselves ‘the Headhunters,’ ’cause we’d go in [to clubs] and if we got the chance we were gonna burn ’em.” As ferociously good as this lineup was, Leonard Chess did not initially allow them to record together.

Jimmy Rogers launched his recording career with Little Walter at his side, cutting the 1948 single “Little Store Blues” for the tiny Ora Nelle label. At his next session as a leader, in 1949, he cut his original version of “Ludella” with Muddy, Walter, and bassist Ernest “Big” Crawford. That year he also accompanied Muddy Waters as a sideman on “Screaming and Crying,” which initially came out on the Aristocrat label, soon renamed Chess Records. For the next half-decade, Rogers was a mainstay of the Waters band onstage and in the studio. That’s Jimmy playing first or second guitar on Muddy’s “Baby Please Don’t Go,” “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man,” “I Just Want to Make Love to You,” “I’m Ready,” “Trouble No More,” and “Got My Mojo Working.” Around late 1956, Jimmy departed the Waters band to go solo, but the two remained close friends.

Beginning with 1950’s “That’s All Right” b/w “Ludella,” Jimmy Rogers’ Chess 78s rank right up there with Muddy’s as some of the finest examples of postwar Chicago blues. Among the highlights are 1950’s “Goin’ Away Blues,” 1954’s “Chicago Bound” and “Sloppy Drunk,” with backing by Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon, and 1956’s “Walking By Myself,” Rogers’ highest-charting record. With the advent of rock and roll, blues record sales diminished, and after a final Chess single in 1959, Rogers did not record again until the 1970s, when he cut the Gold-Tailed Bird album for Shelter Records. He rejoined Muddy Waters in 1978 for the I’m Ready album and tour. Rogers released several albums later in life, notably 1990’s Ludella and 1994’s Blue Bird. MCA/Chess released the two-CD Jimmy Rogers: Complete Chess Recordings in 1997, the year he died.

This previously unpublished interview with Jimmy Rogers took place on August 28, 1996. At the time we spoke, he was living with his family on South Honore Street in Chicago.

***

I’d like to ask you about songwriting.

If it’s something that you want to do, you just concentrate on that. The way it starts is you get an idea, a punchline or something, and it sticks with you. It just goes with you. And then you put that little piece aside and get something else to match it, on and on. It takes a long time to write a good song. You can’t do it overnight, no.

Do you ever come up with the music before you have the right words?

Oh, you play by sound. You learn to play by sound before you learn to arrange or write. You gotta learn your axe, whatever it is – harmonica or guitar, piano, whatever you play. You gotta learn how to play the instrument first, and then after a while you have space there to start what you call writin’. Then you write, and then you gotta analyze what you’ve written and weigh it out, see if it makes sense. It’s a long-term situation.

Are most of your songs true-life stories?

Well, some of them was, and some I just visualized. You know, you don’t live everything that you hear or everything that you write about. Some of the things I’ve said I’ve experienced a lot – quite a bit of my life is the story, but not everything.

Like “Chicago Bound” . . .

Yeah, well, that song was put together from way back – Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, all around different places I’ve been. You put those pieces together as you go along, and eventually you fit it. It’s like a puzzle. It’s very, very complicated to write a meaningful song. That’s the way you do that. I just realized a lot of that stuff, and some I experienced, you know. So put that together and keep addin’ until you come up with something that’s important. Listen to people’s conversations – you listen to that, and see the reaction of people that you associate with, people that you become involved with, and all that stuff. It’s just a big puzzle there, but it’s very important. It was important to me enough to make me just forget about a lot of things that youngsters can run across. I wanted to arrange and write music, and that’s what I did, so it’s very, very, very important.

You go way back with recording. You even worked with Big Crawford.

Oh, yeah. I worked with Big Crawford.

What kind of guy was he?

He was a nice guy. He big and tall – big, tall guy. He weighed about 300-and-some pounds, and he stood about 6 ’5″ or something like that. He was a big, huge guy, like Willie Dixon. And I think Crawford was a little taller than Dixon was. He was very tall – big guy, man.

Was he soft-spoken?

Yeah, he talked normal. I’d see him all the time, and we would talk, crack jokes and fool around together. And man, we was concentrating on arranging. We were all doin’ the same thing together. Muddy, Walter. Me and Muddy would be there arranging. That’s where we got Walter into arranging songs like Muddy and I would do it. I would explain to Muddy – we’d see each other every day. It was just something I wanted to do. If I get an idea about some lyrics or something, I’d put them together by myself. You have to be by yourself, mostly. And when you get it kind of halfway lined up like you want to, then you would consult with your partner about it and you work on it.

Would Muddy bring you some of the songs he was working on?

Yeah. Well, I would do the same thing.

Would you more or less be finished with the song before you’d show it to the other guy?

We deal with it with just the two of us. I mean, Walter would be there, but he wouldn’t say anything. He just be listening and be there, and we’d be sittin’ down. He wasn’t much of a songwriter, Walter wasn’t, but he was a good player. But he would just be there. He wouldn’t interfere with us. He might get up and walk out or something, and go on wherever he had in mind to go, and we would still be doing this, working on arranging this stuff. That’s what we would do all the time. Every day we would do that – just about every day.

Where would you meet?

Over at his house. Muddy was livin’ on the West Side, over at 13th Street – 1851 West 13th Street. That’s where he was livin’ at during that time. I was down there on Peoria Street, down in what they later called “Jew Town.” It’s walking distance – I could walk from my house to Muddy’s in about ten, twelve minutes. At the most it would be fifteen minutes to walk there. Well, it really was a long ways to walk, but it wasn’t worth paying streetcar fare to ride down there because it wasn’t far enough.

Would you keep a guitar at Muddy’s house?

We’d have a guitar at my house and he’d have a guitar over at his house, or whatever. Uh-huh.

Were you serious about rehearsing?

Very serious, yes. It was the most serious thing that I had going in my life at that time. That’s what kept me out of a lot of the different mischievous things that youngsters will get into, because that kept me busy doing that. That was more important to me than breaking out a window or doing the dumb things like kids do.

How did Little Walter wind up playing guitar on a Muddy’s “Honey Bee”?

Well, he was practicin’ and wanted to play. He would practice along with what we were doing, take a guitar and play around with it. After he learnt a few chords on it – notes and stuff. We were just really into the music, man. We wanted to do it. That’s really what we did.

When did you meet Baby Face Leroy Foster?

I met Baby Face even before Walter came to Chicago. I met Walter down in Saint Louis the first time. He was just out from Louisiana. He was down in Memphis and around Helena, places like that. He was a young dude, about 16 or 17, long in there, when we first met up. He was interested in playing, because he’d be around with Sonny Boy – Rice Miller – all those guys there. He’d be around with Peck and Robert Junior [Lockwood]. He would just hang around with Sonny Boy because he was interested in playing the harmonica, and he was trying to learn every phrase he could get. And Rice Miller – that’s Sonny Boy – was pretty good at that type of situation. He’d just hang around with him and follow him.

So Rice Miller would show Little Walter stuff?

We would show him licks, yeah. And once he’d hear it, it would psych him up in his mind to practice on it. When he’d get off by himself, he would do it. Rice wouldn’t even be around, maybe. But he’d just hang around and play around and be around where he be at all the time. He’d follow him around from one gig to another. Rice Miller loved to gamble. He would get the band started up and play a few numbers there for a while. The next thing you know, Sonny Boy would be gone in the house back there where they gamblin’ – got cards and dice and stuff. He’d be back there hustlin’ where they be playin’, tryin’ to make some money. Sometimes he’d spend all the workin’ pay that night [chuckles]. He’d do that sometimes. Oh, that was funny. Yeah, he would gamble off all the money – it wasn’t too much, but the little money what it was, he’d throw it away. And then sometimes he’d win. They’d have little feuds, little arguments about it sometimes. Guys want their little money, and Sonny Boy was bad about doin’ that. He was known to gamble a lot, and he’d mess up his money – anybody’s money, if he had it. So they’d have arguments sometime about that. But they got along okay. They stuck it on out.

Yeah. Baby Face Leroy, he was from Memphis.

Was he a cut-up?

How’s that?

Did he like to clown around?

Not really. He was okay. He’d be around with us. He’d enjoy being around us every day, where we was gigging at or wherever. He would learn some songs, different lyrics and whatever. We’d just jam. I was playing harmonica some, and Baby Face would sing. Muddy, he would sing and play the bottom on the guitar. That was our pleasure thing. That’s what we’d really dig. Yeah.

Did you ever record on harmonica with Muddy?

No. Back there I played the guitar when we started to recordin’. I was full time on guitar. Well, I was on the guitar a long time. After Muddy came in, he liked to play Robert Johnson style, Houston Stackhouse and all those guys down there in Mississippi. He would try to play Son House and all those guys. Those are the guys that he learnt and copied from. He came to Chicago, and he just concentrated with us on Robert Johnson style. I was familiar with Robert’s style a little bit, you know. He’s blues, man, and he had a lot of riffs and whatever, and I was interested in the stuff. You have to be interested in the type of stuff that you really workin’ on. ’Cause if you don’t, man, it’s just like a lot of songs might be good songs, but they don’t really ring a bell with me. Just like somebody called a name or whatever – “Hello, my name is John Doe” or something. I mean, I just hear it and go on, think about something else. But Robert, I liked his style, I liked the way he played. Him, along with a bunch of other guys that I knew about back then. Lot of Johnsons, a lot of people that I knew about that was playin’. I was just interested in what they was doin’.

What kind of a musician was Blue Smitty?

Blue Smitty. Well, he was a guy come like Baby Face Leroy. He would learn how to play and sing pretty good, but he just really wasn’t up on music too tough like we were. Yeah. He wasn’t really all into it. Nah, he had a good job, day job, and that’s what he really concentrate on. We’d play around in the spare time, like a vacation time or whatever, and he’d be around with us like that. But when the job’s time for him, he’d go to work. And we was out there night and day, out there runnin’ around tryin’ to learn. I was really tryin’ to learn about the places and the musicians and stuff, and Blue Smitty would probably be home or gone to work or whatever. He wasn’t hangin’ with us too tough like that.

Whatever happened to him?

Last I heard of Blue Smitty, he was livin’ in Chicago Heights. He’s out there somewhere. I haven’t saw Blue Smitty – it’s been about maybe six or seven years. But he was out there. He left from out of Chicago, went to one of the suburbs out there, him and his family. I think he bought a building out there.

What happened to Baby Face Leroy Foster?

Baby Face, he died a long time ago. Baby Face died, I would say, in the early ’60s. Yeah, he died around ’61 or ’62 – somewhere along in there.

I want to ask you about one of my favorite musicians, Big Bill Broonzy.

Oh, Broonzy – yeah! He was an old-timer, Big Bill.

Wasn’t he hot in the 1920s and ’30s?

Oh, he was pretty hot like Tampa Red. Big Bill, Tampa Red, and Big Maceo, all those guys. They was hot way back at that time.

Nobody could swing like Big Maceo.

Yeah, he could swing. He had some good riffs on the piano. He was good, man. He had a real heavy left hand, but that’s where his power was and harmonizing. But after later years he would drink pretty heavy too, and it kind of affect him. He had two or three different heart attacks, and then he went into strokes and stuff. Whiskey really messed him around.

Is it true that when Tampa Red’s wife passed away, he lost some of what he had?

Yeah, like he lost his right hand, man, after she passed. I been to their house a lot of times.

Wasn’t that a place where musicians would go to hang out and rehearse?

Well, me and Johnny and Baby Face Leroy, we would do it. We would hang around there.

Are you talking about Blind Johnny Davis?

Johnny Jones. He was a piano player too. In fact, after Big Maceo had a stroke and lost power in his left hand, Johnny was really on that style that Big Maceo played on, and Johnny played behind Tampa. He played on some records with Tampa [1949-1952], the later years after that. He played with him a long time, maybe three or four years, I’d say.

Did you see Tampa when he was in his prime?

Oh, yeah. Tampa used to go up in New York, different places. Maine, New Hampshire, down in St. Louis, places like that. I saw him a lot of places, a lot of times.

Man, that band you put together with Muddy sure sounded different than what was being played around town before that.

[Laughs.] We worked on that, concentrated on that. Fit it in. That’s what the concentration consist of. If you listen and you concentrate on something, when you get pretty close to it, you have the right ideas and harmonize with the guys that you been around with, the different parts the guys are playin’ fit in. That’s where you get your harmony from. That’s all I did, was concentrate on that.

Were there times in the studio where you and Muddy really felt like you hit it, like, “This is it – this song is important”?

Yeah, we did that a lot of times. When you play out in the public like we was doin’, around small crowds or whatever, you could just about tell when you hit a nerve there. That’s what you concentrate on.

What was the studio environment like back then compared to today?

Well, to me, they just changed the system. But to me it works no different too much in studio action. Not too much. As far as I’m concerned about it, they take your voice and your music and turn it around and they do different things with it after you gone. You lay the tracks down and get it set up like you want it, and then you go on. Then those guys in the studio there, they works with it, do a lot of different things with it. Sometimes it’s okay, and then sometimes I really don’t appreciate the way they do it. But that’s the system – that’s the way they do it. So they put the money up, and I hope the best from them then.

A lot of writers credit you with being one of the fathers of the Chicago blues guitar sound.

Yeah, I’ve really heard that. I understand it.

What does that mean to you?

Well, it’s the truth. I was back when Memphis Minnie and Big Bill and Tampa Red and all those guys, Big Maceo, they were playin’. When I came in the picture, they was the older guys. They had been around different places. They was more familiar with it than I was. I was interested in learning and trying to build. See, I was mostly like a creator – that’s what I was about. Creatin’ sounds. When I’d hear something – I do it right now – I’d hear different sounds and I’d see what way it should fit with the guy that’s doin’ it. If it’s different, it’s not my prerogative. Sometimes I don’t care about the way he’d arrange it. If it was me, I would do it a different way sometime. And then sometime I’d hear stuff that’s right on the button or pretty close, but you still can see in there where they should have did such-and-such a thing, you know. Always can do that somewhere.

What were the best guitar and amp to use for recording sessions back then?

At that time I was a Gibson man – Gibson guitars. I like the Silvertone guitars and Gibson. Gibson was my favorite guitar.

What kind of Gibson?

Well, I had an old L-5. That was a good guitar. I had several nice guitars. That was way before all this fancy stuff, these little guitars come out – Les Pauls and all that stuff, Rickenbacker and different things like that. That was way before that stuff came out. But, see, Gibson was a standard guitar.

Did you use an L-5 in the studio when you were cutting your own records for Chess?

Yeah, I did that. I used it in the studios a lot until it got kind of bad, and then I had to put it in the shop and get it repaired. You couldn’t fix ’em around Chicago. You had to send it to Kalamazoo, Michigan. Send it off, and you might get it back and you might not. Mm hmm.

What were the best kind of amps to use?

Gibson, I would say. That was my first one and second one. I had a lot of different amps. After later years they started making Fender, and then I got hold to one of those tweed Fenders.

Like a Fender Reverb?

No, it wasn’t a Reverb. They had a reverb unit that you could attach to it, a little box like a radio. You had to get that box to get your reverb, because they hadn’t start putting it in the amplifiers during that time. So I would get that box. See, we would get just about everything that we needed between two places in Chicago where you could get instruments. One is 1800 South Halsted Street – Maury’s Music – and then you could go down Lyon and Healy down on Wabash downtown.

Lyon and Healy used to make guitars too.

That’s right. So there used to be those two places where we would get ’em.

Were you ever much of a slide player?

Nah. When I was a kid I used to used to take me a shoe-polish bottle and put strings on the wall on the outside of the house and slide that. We used to do that. That what inspired me to concentrate on Robert Johnson and style that he had with those broom wires on the wall with the slide. It didn’t really do too much for me, because there wasn’t enough there for me.

Did they used to call those wall-mounted instruments “diddley bows”?

Yeah, that’s what they did call ’em. Yeah.

Where did you learn about tuning down your guitar strings to play bass?

Oh, well, that came in for harmony. You could tune your guitar way down to low G, and you got a basic sound, but you gotta use heavy strings. So we did that. I had a boy called Robert Woodfork. He used to play with me [in 1952 and ’53], and that’s the way he had his guitar tuned. He’s dead too. But he started tuning down to a low G and the guitar had pretty heavy strings on. You could get a basic sound out of it too. But the point was there you couldn’t go too loud, because the amplifiers they was makin’, they wasn’t too powerful. You used to bust a speaker quick like that. [Laughs.]

Was it fairly loud in the nightclubs you guys used to play?

Well, no. They started comin’ in later years. After we electrified guitars, it was always like a acoustic sound in those clubs. You could hear, but it wasn’t loud. [When] the crowds commenced getting bigger and more noisy, you could be playin’ a number and the people was noisy, and you really couldn’t cut through too well.

Buddy Guy told me that back then, the Chicago blues guitarists played sitting down.

Well, we did. We played sittin’ down all the time.

When did you start playing standing up?

Later years people started performin’. Like you stand up and you get applause for standing up.

What did you think when younger players like Otis Rush and Magic Sam and Buddy Guy came along?

When those guys came in the picture, we was already moving. We was doin’ our thing.

Around Chicago, you were the most famous musicians in blues music.

[Laughs heartily.] Yeah. They used to come around, a bunch of guys. Some of them now I can remember, and some of them I can’t. But there was a whole lot of musicians used to come around. Most of ’em is passed on. The Myers brothers – Dave and Louis Myers. Junior Wells – he was a young guy who was playing harmonica. He was playin’ like John Lee Williams style [John Lee Williamson, a.k.a. Sonny Boy Williamson I]. Junior, he’s still around now. I see him a lot. We still get together, like Buddy, we do. We still get together and laugh about this stuff, times that have passed on. Yeah. I seen so many guys. Some of them made it, and a lot of them didn’t ever make it. Some of them died, some of them changed and went doin’ other things. They’d disappear, you know, like that.

Some of them got married.

Some of them got married [laughs] and had a houseful of kids and stuff. Yeah.

Who’s the best piano man you ever worked with?

I worked with quite a few different piano players, yeah. Well, way back at that time, I would say Walter Davis is a good piano player in his style, the way he played.

He goes way back. He played with Lucille Bogan for a while.

That’s right, man.

Did you ever hear her perform?

Tell me about Elgin Evans and Fred Below.

Elgin Evans, he was a drummer. Fred Below could play, but he was like a jazz drummer. He was wantin’ to be a jazz drummer – that’s what he was plannin’ to be. But blues came in around the time he came out of the Army. The blues was movin’ in and getting in the limelight – that was before rock and roll. Below wanted to learn how to play background like Elgin, but he didn’t know those crashes and rolls and turnarounds. Elgin taught him a lot about that.

Elgin was a fine drummer.

Yeah. Below would sometimes be comin’ to work, man. Elgin be so sleepy, say, “Man, that boy was at my house at ten o’clock this morning, man, and had me up all day with a practice pad on the bed. Teachin’ him to crash and roll and count. Man, he worried me around there until about four or five o’clock.” We’d laugh about that. But he learnt to roll and crash and follow-up and whatever. That’s what he was really interested in was that. And with what he had in the jazz, he turned out to be a better drummer than Elgin was, because he was younger and he had more speed. He turned out to be a real good drummer. He worked at times with me, with Muddy, and then Walter came in and he started to playin’ with him. And he was with the Aces, they called them – Below, Dave, and Louis, and all those guys there, they was playin’ around with Junior Wells. They had that band first, Junior did. After they got started playing around little clubs, and they would play after-hours stuff the way we was playin’. They was on the kick that we played – that’s where they would play.

And then after Walter came in and got that band, well, it wasn’t too hard for them to do it, because that’s what they’d been doin’. But Walter, he wasn’t too good at meditatin’ [mediating] and tryin’ to train guys to play, because he was a follower himself and playin’ that lead instrument. He’d run off a lot, and his timin’ was really kind of rough. We got him pretty well into the timing, because he was playin’ by himself [at first]. When you play music by yourself, you’re playin’ the lead and followin’ and skippin’, and that’s the way he learnt to play. He was good, but he didn’t have his face, really. So we got him down a little bit, got him on the count pretty close, as close as we could get him to be with what he had. So we had fun. We had really a lot of fun.

Where do you think guitar shuffles came from?

Ah, guitar shuffles. Oh, man, I didn’t really know what it was about when we was doin’ it. It’s just somethin’ that came to, and they started callin’ it the shuffle. It was a shuffle. I really started playin’ a lot of shuffles on the guitar, but we didn’t call it no shuffle. We just called it a boogie-woogie. [Laughs.] That’s what we would call it – boogie woogie. Yeah. Then they started calling it a shuffle.

Were you around when Henry Strong was playing harmonica?

Yeah. Well, that was later years. He wasn’t with us too long before that old lady killed him. His old lady cut him to death. He was just gettin’ the hang with us. See, the Army grabbed Junior – we had Junior Wells – and they’d taken him in the Army. We had to get somebody, and Henry Strong – everybody called him “Pot” – we all knew him. We got him, round him up, and he started playin’ with us. He was getting’ a little better and a little better. He didn’t never get really strong with it, but he was gettin’ there. We was puttin’ him on the road. We were fixin’ to take him on the road the time his old lady killed him. She cut a main artery in his neck somewhere.

Was this at a gig?

No, he was at home. Yeah, I carried him home that night, dropped him off. They was into it that night when we got off of work. His old lady and him was into it. I dropped him off at home, and then after I dropped him off, Elgin came over to my house, Friday mornin’, and told me that Muddy had sent him over to get me to try to find a harmonica player. He said, “Pot’s dead.” I said, “Oh, man.”

Did Pot’s wife go to jail?

She went to jail – her mother carried her to jail – but she got out on bond and they switched it around, man. There was nobody there ready to fight for him, pull for him, you know. Back during that time money was kind of scarce. Muddy wasn’t gonna spend no money on it. Just wasn’t nobody really to speak up for Henry Strong. His mother was down South. She didn’t have anything. The people that she [Strong’s wife] knew had a little money and pulled a few strings, and they got out of it pretty easy.

After you left the band, did you and Muddy stay friends?

Oh, man, Muddy would be at my house or I’d be over there to his house. We were never angry about that, no. I was just trying to better my condition – that’s all. See, I had kids growing up. Now they’s thirty-five and forty years old. And they was little fellas then. Financial, I got lucky there – it wasn’t lucky, but I was fortunate enough to get a little money, my wife and I, and we went into women and children’s clothing business. I was doing pretty good at that until Martin Luther King got killed and they started looting and messin’ up Chicago. They got me. I spent a lot of money on that stuff, man. I lost stock. I used to spend $1000, $1200 back during that time – that’s pretty good money to lay out there, pay your overhead too. I just had to spend a lot of money when this jumped off, and all this stuff got wiped out there.

And that’s when you went to work with Shelter Records?

Yeah, I went with Shelter – me and Freddy King. Freddy King introduced me to – what is this boy’s name? Leon Russell and all those guys in California.

Did Freddy King really stand out as a guitarist in those days?

He turned out to be real good. He was good. Uh-huh. Because I learned him a lot of stuff off a guitar. I learned him a lot of my type of stuff on the guitar, yeah. [Laughs.] Yeah, he would do it. He was good!

Bob Margolin, who played with Muddy . . .

Yeah, Bob Margolin. He picked up a lot of ideas with me there.

And he credits you too.

Yeah.

He heard Muddy tell someone that the best song he ever wrote was “Screamin’ and Cryin’.”

Yeah, I remember that one.

Do you know why Muddy might have said that?

Well, it’s a feeling, I guess, he had. We got in there and built around him there. We did a good job with that song. Well, it’s just like me with “That’s All Right” and the other songs. You feel something that’s true for you, and you just get into it and go on and do it. That’s the way we did that.

What did you think of Eric Clapton’s blues covers on his From the Cradle album?

Yeah, I mean I been on Eric a long time.

Did you like those records?

Yeah. Some of those numbers were real nice. He had some real good cuts in there. Eric, he’s a good player, the stuff that he can pick up off these guys that is playin’ the blues, you know. That type of guitar, he’s good, and he’s a good player. And he’s a good guy, as far as I know of him. We been around together a lot, and he’s got ideas off of me. So we get along real good today. And Mick Jagger. Mick Jagger is a Wildman. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards – all those guys, man, I meet those guys a lot. We get together and talk. We have fun.

You were talking about when you were young and really liked Big Bill Broonzy. When you finally had a chance to meet him, did he live up to your expectations?

Oh, yeah. I was young. He would tell me and kind of give Muddy advice about things he should do in Europe and different places like that, how you supposed to deal with these people. He was going to Europe then, Bill was, and he’d give us the best advice that he could about how things were at that time. He was one of those guys that really got out from behind the Iron Curtain. He got to Europe and he learned his way around. Everything he told us really worked out that way. He said the records that we was makin’ was gettin’ over there in different places. And we didn’t even know about it, you know. So he was over there and he would tell us about it. Bill, he sold records here in the States, but he never was like Robert Johnson here in the States. But he sold quite a bit of records in this United States here, and then he got hooked up over there in Europe with this dude who booked us over there. What the hell was that guy’s name? He used to book us all over there. Holy shoot. He was from Germany.

Horst Lippmann?

Horst Lippman – that’s it! Yeah. See, Lippmann, he did a lot of stuff with Chess back during that time, forming those records and making deals and stuff. Lippmann was the one that put us through over there. We didn’t know about it, but Chess knew what he was doin’.

If someone were to put together a Best of Jimmy Rogers CD, what songs would have to go on there?

Of my material?

Yes, favorites that you have.

Yeah, well, if I could find the players that fit it. It’s kind of hard to get now those guys that really knows about that type of stuff. It’s kind of hard to find ’em, but there’s some out there. Get the right guys, and we’d go on and record it. Yeah, I would do it. There’s a possibility I would do it.

Back in the 1950s, were the Headhunters as tough as everybody says they were?

Well, [laughs] they said that. They called us the Headhunters.

That was you, Muddy, and Walter.

That’s right. The three of us. That’s right.

Is that because you’d go around trying to cut people?

Well, they do it right today. Guys will try – they call it “cut your head.” But we was doin’ it before. Back during that time, we’d go down to where musicians were at night and cut their heads. The three of us hanged together most times. We kept Walter interested in doing this stuff, and he’d hang right with us. We’d get in the car, the three of us, just throw our amplifiers in the back, and run from one joint to the other and have fun. Go in there, pretty nice crowd, we go in there. The guys know about us. We’d go in there and sit around a little while, talk to the club owner. It wasn’t no money. See, we was on the road, goin’ around like that, different places. We was makin’ pretty good money, they called it. We wouldn’t want the gig. We’d know the guy [who owned the bar], sit in, have a few drinks and chit-chat, and then we’d go onstage and play a number or two – something like that. Yeah. So that’s what they called us – cut their heads and stuff.

Of all the recording sessions you’ve been part of, do any stand out as being your favorites?

We did some good sessions! [Laughs.] A lot of great sessions, man. One, I don’t know. There’s quite a few sessions. I really appreciate a lot of that Chess stuff. We got together, man, and had some good fun in the studio. We’d stay there all night. Sometimes we’d be in there a couple of days at Chess Studio. Just come by home and change clothes or something, take a bath, and go right back.

Were things pretty loose there? Could you have a drink?

Yeah, you could have your drink. But I wasn’t really wasn’t too hard up on – we wasn’t too hung up on whiskey too much. No. We would drink, but we could always control it, you know. We didn’t have no problem with that. Never had no problem. Walter, he got kind of wild with whiskey and reefers later years. You know, he got with his buddies. You know, you start meeting people that lead you different ways when that come around. Yeah, but we didn’t never get into it. Like now, I take it or leave it. Sometime I take a beer or something, a couple of shots of whiskey, in the night, and I forget about it. I don’t care about it. The music makes me happy. And when the guys start playing good, that’s what I’m interested in.

Do you play guitar at home very much?

I practice around home. I practice around the house here quite a bit, yes, me and my son.

James D. Lane?

Yeah.

Do you two play out in public much?

Uh, well, I gotta go to St. Louis tonight.

What stands out about your son’s guitar playing?

Well, he’s a young player that’s comin’ up. A lot of these guys now around Chicago and different places are learnin’ to play pretty good. My son, he’s one that wants to do it, so I give him a chance.

Does he play your songs?

Yeah, he plays my songs real good! All his life he been doin’ that stuff.

Do you have other children who play?

No. I got one daughter. She got two little portable pianos, and man, she’s trying to learn it. But she’s not too good, no. She just fool around with it in her spare time. But she might take off – you never know.

Back in the 1950s, did you use guitar picks?

Back then it was big Fender picks. I’d never use a straight pick, but I’d use one, two, three, four – like that, on your fingers. Call ’em thimble picks, like.

Thumb picks?

Thumb picks and fingerpicks too.

Is that so you’d be louder in the clubs?

And more clear.

Those things could fall off too.

If you don’t put them on right, yeah. There’s a certain way you have to put them on and set them.

Were they made out of metal?

Metal, yeah. The thumbpicks mostly are like plastic, but the other picks, they was metal.

Weren’t guitar strings pretty bad back then too? Like those Black Diamonds.

Black Diamond guitars strings, yeah, they was good. Ernie Ball and all. Black Diamond was the standard string, but they was a pretty heavy guitar string. Yeah.

Well, Jimmy, this gives me a lot of stuff to work with. I sure appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.

That’s good, man! I really appreciate it. You’re takin’ me way back here. [Laughs.] Twenty or thirty years, man.

A few days after recording the third Van Halen album, Women and Children First, Eddie called me at home to see how I was doing. When I mentioned I was working on a Guitar Player magazine article on do-it-yourself guitar kits, he volunteered to give me his insights into building guitars. Naturally, I accepted – after all, he was largely responsible for the trend’s popularity. Two days later, on December 29, 1979, we had that conversation. Here, for the first time, is a complete transcript. Eddie offers a wealth of insight into his homemade guitars, as well as his feelings about some of the harder lessons he’d learned on and off the road.

***

Hey, Eddie, how you doing?

Oh, you know, feeling a bit zombied.

That’s the way I was last night.

[Laughs heartily.]

I’d like to start by asking why did you start building your own guitar?

See, actually I ruined a lot of old guitars. I just didn’t like the fact of having the standard rock-star setup – you know, a brand-new Les Paul and a Marshall. I was really into vibrato. Like when we used to play the high school dances and shit, I bought myself a ’58 Strat. But it’s only guitar and bass and drums, musically, and the rest of the guys just looked at me and said, “Hey, that thing sounds like hell!” [Laughs.] You know, single-coil pickups, they sound real buzzy, thin. It wasn’t enough sound to fill it up. So the reason I started dickin’ around that way is I wanted a Gibson-type of sound, but with a Strat vibrato. So I stuck a humbucking pickup in a Strat, and it worked okay, but it didn’t get good enough tone because Fenders are kind of cheap wood – they’re made out of alder or something. So then I found out about Charvel, but I’m suing them right now.

            Didn’t they go out of business?

No, no. Not at all. It’s actually my guitar design that’s keeping them in business. See, Wayne [Charvel] sold it to a guy named Grover Jackson, and Wayne was a real cool dude. When he owned it, I was considering endorsing it. And then this Grover Jackson dude took over, and he’s just sold so many of them for like a grand apiece.

Are these Eddie Van Halen model guitars?

Yeah!

No kidding.

No kidding! It’s not like I want the money. It’s like the reason I did that – I mean, it looks like a Strat, but it only has one pickup in it, one volume knob, no tone, no fancy garbage. It’s painted the way I like ’em, and it’s rear-loaded – you know, it doesn’t have a pickguard. I’m not saying it’s “Wow, the new guitar,” but it is a guitar that you could not at the time buy on the market. So he kind of exploited my idea, so I’m suing him. See, I feel kind of fucked doing that, but all I want him to do is to stop. I don’t give a damn about the money. But the main reason I did that [built my own guitar] was to have something that no one else had. You know, I wanted it to be my guitar, an extension of myself. Just the other night – Christmas Eve – I went to the Whisky. A band called the Weasels was playing, and the lead guitarist had a guitar exactly like mine. I just don’t understand how someone could walk onstage with my guitar, because it is my trademark. You know, when people see a freaked-out striped guitar like that, with one pickup and one volume knob, they obviously know it’s mine.

There goes your identity.

Yeah. And also, him selling it and advertising, makes it seem to the fans that I’m selling myself. They don’t know that I’m against it. They think that I’m out for the bucks. That’s not it at all. So it’s kind of a drag. There’s another guy too . . . . See, I’ve rewound my own pickups before, and a guy named Seymour Duncan – you probably know him – I I got pissed at him too. He called me up and said, “Can we use your name for a special pickup?” And I said no. Next time I pick up Guitar Player magazine, there’s a special Van Halen model customized Duncan pickup. So I called him up and said, “What the hell’s goin’ on?” So he stopped, finally. It’s just kind of weird, you know.

You’re getting exploited.

Yeah. Just say something like.

            Where’s a good place to go for guitar parts?

There’s a lot of different companies where you could buy parts. DiMarzio makes parts, Mighty Mite, Charvel. The main person who I buy parts from now is a guy up in Seattle named Lynn Ellsworth. He makes Boogie Bodies. He’s a nice guy.

How many guitars have you made now?

Let’s see. Two, three, four, five – about seven.

And how many are part of your act?

See, what I do mainly is I use one a year. Like the first year, supporting the first album, I used the black-and-white-striped one. That was actually the original. It was not rear-loaded. It had a pickguard which I cut out myself, and it had an old Gibson P.A.F. The thing I always do to the pickups is I pot them. You dip them in paraffin wax, which cuts out the high, obnoxious feedback. It’s kind of a tricky thing, because if you leave it in there too long, the pickup melts [laughs].

You just heat up some paraffin at home and stick the pickup in it?

Oh, yeah. You just take a coffee can and use the same kind of wax that you use to wax a surfboard. You just melt it down, put the pickup in it. See, the reason the pickup feeds back is the coil windings vibrate. And when the wax soaks in there, it keeps it from vibrating. It still feeds back, but it’s controllable. It’s like it feeds back when you want it. It doesn’t cut out feedback totally; it just gets rid of that real high squeal, like a microphone feeding back.

And you used a Gibson P.A.F. or a copy of one?

A Gibson.

            Is that the guitar you had when I did the first [1978] Guitar Player story on you?

Yeah.

That’s not the one that had the chain in it.

You mean the – what do you call those things?

            You had one that you cut with a chainsaw . . .

Yeah, yeah. That was originally an Ibanez Destroyer, and it was one of the original ones, which are actually as good or better than the original Gibsons, because they’re made out of korrina wood, which is real rare, hard-to-work-with wood. It’s real light wood, but real toney. Ibanez stopped making them out of that wood, probably because it’s too hard to work with. They started making them out of ash, and those are turkeys.

Where did you go for the hardware for your Strat-style guitar?

Well, it was actually the old ’58 Strat. I took the vibrato tailpiece out – I guess that’s about it. Yeah, I took that out. Like new Fenders, the vibrato tailpiece isn’t half as good as the original old ones. So I took that out of the ’58 and went to Charvel and bought a heavier piece of wood. And I really like wide necks – you know, I hate skinny necks. I like them real wide, almost like a classical guitar. You know, they’re flat and wide. They’re thin . . . I don’t know how to explain it. I mean, they’re real wide up and down, but thin the other way.

So it’s wide across the fingerboard, but it’s a thin neck.

Right, right.

            You got the neck at Charvel too?

Yeah.

Was that a maple neck?

Yeah. And also I don’t like ’em sprayed. I hate the lacquer shit.

Do you put oil on it?

No, nothin’. Just bare wood. Because I like to feel the wood, you know? I hate to slip and slide. You start sweatin’, and you can’t stretch the strings.

How long did it take to make your first guitar?

Not really too long, but it took me a while to build up to doing that. Like I used to have an old [Gibson ES-] 335, which if I didn’t ruin would be worth a lot of money right now. I refret them myself. I do just about everything. By trial and error, I’m pretty good at it now. But I’ve ruined a lot of good stuff learning.

Did you make a different  guitar for your second album and tour?

Yeah. Well, see, it was my idea to have it rear-loaded, so it wouldn’t have a pickguard. Charvel routed it for me, because at the time I couldn’t afford a router. So they claim that they built it for me, which is actually bullshit. You know, all they did was that did what I told them to do. That’s the guitar on the second album cover.

What kind of electronics went into that one?

The pickup that’s on the picture is not really what I used. It’s like when we did the photo session for the album cover, I’d just finished painting it and slapping it together, and I just stuck some garbage pickup in there I wasn’t actually playing, just so it would look like a complete guitar. But I’ve tried a bunch of different pickups in there. I took the pickup out of the first one and put it in there, and it didn’t sound too good. So what I did is I took a DiMarzio pickup – I don’t really go for those, because they’re real distorted. See, I like a clean sound, but with sustain. I hate the fuzz-box, real raspy sound. I don’t particularly go for that.

It’s old now.

Yeah. DiMarzio pickups have real big magnets – that’s how they get their power – so what I did is I took a DiMarzio pickup and put the P.A.F. magnet in it and I rewound it, which took a long time.

You did that by hand?

Yeah. It took a long time to rewind that thing. Actually, I ruined about three pickups. By the fourth time, you know, it worked.

Did you have an idea of how many windings you wanted?

Uh, just by sight.

Did you use fresh wire?

Yeah. See, I’ve done something else too before – I put two Strat pickups together and added more windings to make a humbucking out of it.

Did that work?

Uh, it got kind of an interesting tone. It sounded like a heavy-duty Telecaster.

Sharp edged?

Actually, it was kind of bassy, but it didn’t have the bite. It had kind of a unique sound, but it was not something that I could use.

What other pickups did you try?

That’s about it. I’d do anything to get an old P.A.F. They’re the best. They go for 100, 200 bucks apiece, but that’s what I use, that’s what I like. A lot of people don’t like ’em. See, with my setup, it’s matched. Like if I play my guitar through someone else’s setup, it won’t sound right. And if I use someone else’s guitar through my setup, it won’t sound right.

So what pickup did you finally end up putting in it?

A DiMarzio with a P.A.F. magnet, rewound with copper tape around the windings.

            And then dipped in paraffin?

Yeah. Well, I dipped it in paraffin before I put the copper tape on. But DiMarzio plastic is real cheap. I mean, you have to really be careful. It looks like a wrinkled prune, actually, but it still works [laughs]. It’s real cheap stuff. But old P.A.F.s, you can just throw them in there and let them soak it up. Doesn’t matter how hot it gets – doesn’t melt. But DiMarzios, God! If you blink, all of a sudden your pickup’s ruined.

            So you dip the entire pickup and casing into wax?

Yeah, the whole thing submerged in paraffin wax.

            How many pickups are on the second guitar?

Actually, this year, supporting the second album, I used two guitars. One of them was the original guitar from the first year. And because Charvel started copying them, I said, “What the fuck, man. I better change it.” So what I did is I really went to town painting it all freaked out, and I put three pickups back in. But they didn’t work – only the rear one worked. But I did it just because they copped my original idea. I did it just to be different again, so every kid who bought one like the model I had last year would go, “Oh, man! He’s got something different again.” [Laughs.] Well, you know, I always like to turn the corner on people when they start latching on to what I’m doing. I never really imagined that people would do something like that. I just kind of fell into this whole business. I’m just a punk kid, trying to get a sound out of a guitar that I couldn’t off the rack, so I built one myself, and now everyone else wants one.

So you’ve got to keep going for the individualistic stuff.

Yeah!

            So the first guitar now has three pickups, and the second one has one or two?

One.

            Have you built any since then?

Okay. I bought a couple of necks from Boogie Bodies, which I refretted with larger frets.

            Like Gibson Jumbos?

I guess. I’m pretty sure they’re Gibsons. I don’t know. The way people do fret jobs, I hate. I do it real simple. I just sand it down with some 400 wet or dry – that dark stuff – and then I just use some steel wool. I like real rounded frets. I hate them flat, you know, like the old Les Paul Custom “fretless wonders” or whatever you used to call them – I couldn’t stand those, because the intonation’s off. The more a fret comes to a peak, the more precise the intonation is. The more fret space you have that the string rests on, the harder it is for it to be right on. So what I do is I sand them and build them up to a point, instead of being flat. Most fret jobs, they file them flat, and they do them individually, which I think is kind of a stupid way to do it, because if they do them one by one, then how do you know they’re all even? I don’t know if it’s a weird way of doing it, but I just do it a real simple, cheap way. But it works for me.

Have you put any of these necks onto bodies yet?

Oh, yeah. Okay, another thing. There’s this guy named Floyd Rose. I have a vibrato setup that he makes, and I like it and I don’t. It has its advantages and disadvantages. Like in the studio, I use a standard vibrato, a Fender. I’m used to it.

            The one off the ’58?

Yeah. I’m real used to it. People go, “Oh, wow, how do you keep it in tune?” Well, it’s actually a totally different technique. I mean, there are special tricks that I know to keep it in tune, but it still goes out of tune. You have to play with it. If you bring the bar down, the G and the B string always go sharp when you let it back. So what you have to do before you hit a barre chord, you gotta stretch those strings back – a real quick little jerk, and it’ll pop back right to where it was. But it’s totally different than playing a Les Paul. A lot of kids, they go, “Hey, how do you keep it in tune?” and they pick up a guitar and just go crazy on that bar.

            It takes a lot of finesse.

It’s just a totally different technique. That vibrato thing is actually like another instrument. You’ve got to know how to use it. You can’t just grab it, jerk the thing, and expect it to stay in tune. The Floyd Rose thing is a real good idea. My brother actually had the exact same idea years ago. He had the exact same idea. He said, “Ed, why don’t you do this – clamp it down here and there, and there’s no way it will go out of tune.” But I just kind of passed it off. I go, “Yeah, right.” Because I don’t have a machine shop, I couldn’t build it. So Floyd pursued it, and he’s got a hot item. But it has disadvantages too, because I tune a lot while I’m playing. I’ll hit a chord and tune it while I’m playing. With this thing, you can’t. You have to unclamp it and then tune it.

Does the Floyd Rose keep the strings in tune as much as players claim?

Okay. It’s hard to get in tune perfectly. Well, I mean, any guitar. A guitar is just theoretically built wrong. Each string is an interval of fourths, and then the B string is off. Theoretically, it’s not right. Like if you tune an open-E chord in the first position and it’s perfectly in tune, and then you hit a barre chord an octave higher, it’s out of tune. The B string is always a motherfucker to keep in tune all the time! So I have to retune for certain songs. And when I use the Floyd onstage, I have to unclamp it and do it real quick. But with a standard-vibrato guitar, I can tune it while I’m playing.

How do you set up the intonation on your homemade guitar?Do you have to take it to somebody?

No, I actually pretty much do it by ear. It’s not that hard. You just hit the – what do you call it?

            Harmonic?

The [12th fret] harmonic and then hit the [open] note, and it’s obvious if it’s off. So you just have to have an ear for it. I got pretty good ears, I guess.

Do you do for brass hardware?

No.

            Why?

Because it’s too brittle sounding. See, that’s the thing I was getting to also. I like the sound I get out of the normal old Fender tremolo. The only thing I don’t like about the Floyd Rose thing – it’s a great idea, you can go crazy with the bar – but I don’t know what kind of metal he uses, but it sounds real brittle-bright. I have to do some heavy equalization to get a tone out of it. That’s why I don’t use it in the studio. Because in the studio, Ted [Templeman] really doesn’t do much equalization. We just go in there and play live, and I depend on making it sound good out of the amp, instead of, “Oh, well. Fix it in the mix.” That’s why it also goes so quick. We just finished recording our third album in six days. We finished about a week ago. Well, we finished the music in six days. We just go in there and play live. I mean, how long does that take?

            You mentioned that you had 21 songs the last time you went into the studio for the second album. Did you use any of them for the third?

No.

All new ones?

Yeah. You know, it’s weird: I like to be excited too. I think you’ll kind of trip off the next album. It’s hard rock.

Any instrumentals?

Let me see. [Pause.] Yeah, there’s a thing on there, a real weird vibrato noise. It actually sounds like an airplane starting. Dave wanted to call it “Tora Tora” [laughs]. I wanted to call it “Act Like It Hurts.” We haven’t decided. It’s kind of a trippy album. I like it. I think you’ll have to listen to it a couple of times. It’s a little bit different than the past.

           You should be getting ready for a live album after this one.

Well, I look at it this way: Our studio albums are like live albums. They are live! I don’t do any overdubs. I solo on the basic track. One song I want to tell you about, because if you hear it, you might not even notice. I play an electric piano. It’s called “And the Cradle Will Rock.” The name of the new album is Women And Children First. [Laughs.] I played a Wurlitzer electric piano through my Marshall stacks, and it sounds like my guitar!

            I’ve never heard of someone doing that.

Wait ’til you hear it! I play it for people, and I have to tell them that’s a piano. And they go, “What?!” It sounds real good. It’s real simple. You know, I’ve been trained on classical piano since I was six years old, but it doesn’t show. [Laughs.] You know, it’s nothing tasteful. I just picked the thing up and started banging on it. Wait ’til you hear this noise on it; it’s tripped out!

Did the piano go through any effects?

Just my pedalboard, my cheap piece of plywood with my MXR garbage. You know, that’s funny too. I’ve met just about everybody that I grew up on, and they all laugh – you know, like Montrose and Nugent and all these people. Last year when we’d open for them, they’d walk up to me and go, “What is this shit?” You know, I got my little plywood with an MXR phase shifter duct-taped onto it. And then after the show they start trippin’. They go [in a quiet, respectful voice], “Whoa! How do you get that sound?” I really think it’s funny. I see Ronnie Montrose with his $4,000 studio rack with his digital delay and his harmonizer and everything else, and I swear to God, I can’t tell he’s usin’ it. And then he laughed himself silly looking at my stuff. And then later on he’s going, “Whoa, how do you get that sound?” And Nugent, we opened three shows for him in Maryland, and the first day he’s just kind of saying, “You little fucker, you” – but he meant it jokingly. And he laughed: “What is this garbage pedalboard you’re using?” By the third day, he came to our soundcheck and asked me if he could play through my equipment. I just said, “Hey, Ted, you can play through it if you want, but it’s not gonna sound the way it sounds when I play through it.” Because it really isn’t the equipment. It’s in the fingers. Not to sound egoed-out, but it is.

You use techniques they don’t use.

And I’ve gone through every amp on the market. I mean, first tour I started out using my old 100-watt amp, which breaks down every other song, so I started using new Marshalls. I didn’t like they way they sounded, but I had to. I just had to have something that would make it through the show. Then I lost them somewhere on an airplane, never got them back. And I started using Music Mans. I used Laneys. I used just about everything, and they all pretty much sounded the same, just because I play the same.

What did you finally settle with?

Well, in the studio I use my old Marshall, which gets a slightly different sound. Live I use new Marshalls, but I do little tricks to them too.

Like overdriving them with a Variac?

Yeah. I don’t even use fuses in my amps. See, okay, I use a combination of two different amps. They’re both Marshalls, but one of them is actually lower-powered and the other one is boosted. I use them together. Like one of them has this giant capacitor – I don’t know what they’re used for, but it takes off ten volts. It doesn’t really change the sound, but whatever I use, I use to the max. I just turn it all the way up. And a standard, on-the-market amp won’t last that long doing that. So I put this capacitor in there, which lowers it down to about 100. I mean, a Marshall is under-rated. They’re actually like 150 watts, even though they say that they’re a 100-watt amp. So I lower it about ten volts, and it lasts a little longer. I still have to retube them once a week.

Do you lose many of them during shows?

Uh, yeah. But I have so many of them. I use between twelve and fifteen.

How many are switched on?

Usually six at a time. Depends on the size of the place I’m playing. I mean, I can actually play so loud onstage that you won’t hear anything else. But I don’t really like to do that. I like to get balanced sound. Actually, they’re all on, and I have this footswitch where if one blows out, I just kick the switch and it changes to another one. It’s like a bypass switch. When you click it on, the other amp comes in. It’s simple, you know. It’s all basement stuff. I mean, everything we do, we do ourselves in the basement.

It’s funny how far people will go trying to duplicate your sound.

Yeah.

Going back to your guitars, have you built any new ones?

Yeah, I was just getting to that. I had a mahogany body made by Boogie Bodies.

Strat-style?

Yeah. It fits me, because I’m small. It just feels good on me. I had it made like two-and-a-half inches thick, which is thicker than a Les Paul.

For the sound?

Yeah, because it’s got a Floyd Rose tailpiece on it, which gets such a thin sound. I thought that maybe if I got a chunky piece of wood, it would make up for the tinkiness of the sound. But, ehh. Well, it works a little bit.

            What kind of hardware did you put in it?

It has an old Gibson P.A.F. in it and just one volume knob.

            These are old Gibson P.A.F.’s?

Oh, yeah.

Did you use Schaller tuning heads?

Yeah. They’re about the best kind, I guess.

What other electronics are in it?

Well, the wire from the pickup to the pot. That’s it. It’s real simple. That’s what’s so funny. I mean, everything I do is simple. That’s why people trip, because everyone tries to do the cosmic trip – you know, like the more complicated, the better. “Look at this guitar, man, it’s got fifteen phase switches on it!” Who gives a fuck? I just use raw power.

            How much time do you spend putting them together?

I’m pretty quick at it now. I don’t know. I spend an hour or two.

            How do you finish them?

Well, this one I haven’t painted yet. I use Schwinn bicycle paint. It’s acrylic lacquer, like car paint. It’s good paint.

            Do you still tape it to get the stripes?

Yeah. I love stripes.

Are you building any other ones?

No, not really. I’ve got so many guitars now I don’t know which one to play. There’s a guitar I want made, but I don’t know who I want to have build it, see, because I love 335s. I mean, I can haul ass on those things. When I pick up a 335, you probably wouldn’t even recognize my playing. There’s no vibrato, and I just play totally different. It’s more jazzy, more fluid-fast. Kind of like Holdsworth. That’s another reason I actually started using a vibrato, because I started playing so fast that it lacked . . . . It was just too much – daadaadiddily, daadaadiddily, like that. So what I do now is go, daadaadiddily, daadaadiddily, waaahh-waaah-waaah, daadaadiddily, daadaadiddily, waaahh-waaah. [Laughs.] You know, to break it up a little bit. It’s like a race car racing down the road, and then crashing every now and then. And with the bar, I really don’t have special chops down with it. I just grab it when I feel like it. I like it because I can get more feeling out of it. When I grab it, that’s what I feel.

What’s the hardest part of building a guitar from scratch?

Making the neck fit the body. Another problem with a Gibson pickup, or any humbucking-style pickup, is that the bridge on a Stratocaster is wider than a Gibson, so the strings don’t line up with the pickup poles. I’ve tried slanting the pickup, the double-poled humbucking, so one of them would pick it up if the other one didn’t. If you slant it, the high E would be picked up by the front pole, and the low E would be picked up by the rear pole, whereas if it were straight, the high E and the low E would lose power.

            Which way do you tilt it?

The bottom part to it is towards the bridge. To me, for the sound I like, it’s also important to do the space between the bridge and pickup almost like a Les Paul. The pickup placement has a lot to do with how it’s gonna sound. If you put it up too far, you get the Grand Funk-Johnny Winter tone. And if you put it too close to the bridge, you get a real trebly Strat-like sound. So I move it up a little bit from the Strat sound to get a little beefier tone.

Describe your ideal guitar.

Pretty much what I have. That’s the main thing that pissed me off about Charvel, because I spent 150 bucks building my own guitar. Well, maybe a little more because of the bicycle paint. The painting is the most involved thing. If you want it to come out good, you have to spray it and then let it dry overnight. And then wet-sand it, spray it again. You have to do that about six times. The more coats you put on and wet-sand it, the more shiny, the more glossy it looks. Sometimes I just get fed up and go, “What the hell. Who cares what it looks like?” The original guitar, which I repainted and put three pickups back in, I painted in about two hours.

            When you say it costs $150 to make one, are you just speaking about the wood?

Yeah, and to buy the parts. It doesn’t include the pickups. I have so many parts that I just kind of take something out of something else and put it in.

Do you want me to find you a source for vintage P.A.F. pickups?

That’d be great. See, another thing, if you do find them, I’ll give you the money and you buy it. If they know they’re for me, they’ll jack up the price. There’s a place called House of Guitars or something – this is when we were touring with Black Sabbath – and Tony Iommi goes in there. And they just racked up the price unbelievable. They figured, hey, rock star, he’s got a lot of money. I was smart, and I had my roadie go in and get a price list. They didn’t know that I knew the price list, so I walked in with it, and I go, “How much do you want for this?” And they quoted me a price a grand above what it said on the paper. I said, “Wait a minute, man, it says right here that it’s . . . .” And they said, “Oh, oh, oh,” and tried to make excuses. I hate dealing with people like that. That’s another reason why I build my own. I also did buy two old Les Pauls, just actually for an investment, because I don’t play them.

Gold-tops?

No. I bought a ’59 Les Paul Standard, which is a beautiful guitar – I don’t even want to tell you how much I paid for it. For the person who wants it, the price doesn’t matter. Like other people will say, “Oh, what a fool. You got ripped off.” I spent ten grand on both of them, but they’re beautiful guitars. I got them from a guy named Norman Harris. This stuff wasn’t even in his shop; it’s so nice, he was afraid to let any punk kid touch it. One has a beautiful flame maple top. Right now I’m trying to figure out where to keep them, because when we played the Forum – we ended our tour at the Forum – my mom and dad came. And when my mom came home, the house got ripped off for about twenty gold and platinum albums. Which is real fucked, because playing the Forum is like a dream come true. I’ve seen everyone play there. It was a hell of an event for me, and then I come home and the back door is smashed in and all the records are gone.

            You should rent someplace where you can store things.

Yeah. It’s such a drag. To tell you the truth, I’m not into the star bullshit at all.

Gets old fast, doesn’t it, Eddie?

Yeah. I mean, a lot of people get off on it. They let their hair grow, buy a Les Paul and a Marshall, and be a rock and roll star. I don’t even consider myself a rock star. I enjoy playing guitar, period.

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They’re working your band a lot.

No, we’re working our band a lot. That’s what we want. The only thing that sells us is our live show. Actually, everything we do is the complete reverse of other people. We applied all we ever knew, which was our live show. We never knew much about recording, overdubbing. That’s why when we did our first album, I said, “Hey, Ted, I’ve never done overdubs.” Just the thought of playing to a machine, to me, would lose feel. So I said, “Can I just play live?” You know, go for what you know. So I did, and Ted freaked out. He’s going, “Whoa! It doesn’t even need another guitar.” Because what we did was applied our live show, our live performance, to plastic, whereas people like Boston and Foreigner, they do it the opposite way. They work it out in the studio, and then when they have to go out on tour, they have to rehearse to make it happen live, and it’s obvious. With us, actually, there’s more mania and more feel and more excitement live, because that’s where it’s based. That’s where it comes from. I mean, that’s bottom line. The only thing that sells us is the live show. It’s not hype. I mean, we’re not new wave. They print more garbage about Elvis Costello and . . . you name it. You rarely see us.

            But musically, you’ve got these people beat.

Yeah, I guess. I don’t really look at it competitively at all; I just enjoy what I do, period. And I really get off that people like it. Because when we did our first album, we just put on it what we liked. And for it to sell that many copies freaked me out!

            How many copies has it sold?

It’s up to about four million now – between three and four.

That album was in the charts for more than a year.

It just popped backed in.

When is your next one coming out?

February.

That’s a good way to start the 1980s.

Yeah. And the touring is what does it. Okay, like say with Boston, you know. They’re known for a song. They’re known through the radio. You know, kids drive down the street and they hear that song, and it registers. And then they go, “Oh, Boston. Yeah! I know that song. Let’s go see them.” With us it’s different. They come and see us, half the time not even knowing who we are, and then go, “Whoa! I gotta buy the record.” When we first started touring, we were third bill. We opened for Ronnie Montrose and Journey. And within two months, they were begging us to stay.

Do you make money on tours?

Uh, we break even, because we put all our money into the sound system and lighting. We tour to sell the record.

            Will you be touring as much as you have been?

Sure. This year will probably be the last ten-month world vacation. It’s the type of thing where I don’t want to turn out like a Foghat – you can always see Foghat, that type of thing. There’s got to be a little bit of mystique there. You gotta leave them wanting more. That was our whole philosophy last year’s tour. Like they were begging us to do another show at the Forum – we sold it out in an hour-and-a-half, and we just said no way. You know, build up to it. Take it step by step. All these promoters are trying to take advantage of you. They’re just thinking bucks right now. We’ll lose money just to build, as opposed to taking the money and running, you know.

Is your music changing?

Yes and no. It’s hard for me to say. Listen to the new album and call me up and let me know what you think.

How about with your playing? Are you learning new things on guitar all the time?

Yeah. Like if I sit down and play by myself, I play completely different than I would when I’m playing with the band sometimes. It’s hard to explain, really. It’s like I love Allan Holdsworth, and I can play like that, but it doesn’t fit to the music that we’re playing. I don’t know – I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just really go for feeling. All our albums have mistakes. Big deal! We’re human. It reeks of feeling, you know, and to me that’s what music is all about. Like Fleetwood Mac spent so much money and so much time [in the studio], and my thing is, if something is too perfect, it won’t phase you. It goes in one ear and out the other, because it’s so perfect. Our stuff, to me, keeps you on the edge of your seat. It builds tension. Whether you like it or not, it slaps you in the face.

            It’s “Ice Cream Man” when the electricity comes in.

Yeah. It’s almost like you’re just waiting for us to blow it. You’re sitting on the edge of your seat, just waiting for something to go wrong. But it doesn’t, and that’s what creates that feel, that tension. It’s like winding something up and just waiting to see when it’s gonna break. It’s just inner feelings coming out. It’s not conscious. It’s just the way I am.

You sure have a legion of followers.

Yeah, that’s a trip. You know, it’s funny too. The things I do, like “Eruption” and “Spanish Fly” – I hate to say it, and it’s not hard to do, but I came up with it. Like Rick Derringer opened for us last year, and he did my exact solo. After the show, we’re sitting in the bar, and I said, “Hey, Rick. I grew up on your ass. How can you do this? I don’t care if you use the technique – don’t play my melody.” And he’s drunk and stupid and going, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The next night he does my solo again, and he ends the set with “You Really Got Me,” which is exactly what we do. So I hate to say it, but I just told him, “Hey, if you’re going to continue doing that, you ain’t opening for us.” So I kicked him off.

            Did he ever open for you again?

No. But it’s fucked, you know, because I’ve seen him plenty of times. I’ve even copied his chops way back when. You know, [Johnny Winter’s] Still Alive and Well, stuff like that. And here’s a guy copping my stuff. It’s pretty weird. Tom Scholtz from Boston too. We played right before them – I forget where – and I do my solo. And then all of a sudden he does my solo. And it was real weird, because it was a daytime thing, and I was standing onstage and the whole crowd was looking at me like, “What’s this guy doing?” I was drunk, and I got pissed. Tom Scholtz is a real dick. He’s unsociable. He just thinks he’d God or something. He never comes around; he doesn’t say, “Hi.” He doesn’t do anything. He just kind of hides out, runs onstage and plays, and disappears afterwards. So I started talking to the other guitarist, and I told him, “Hey. Tell him I think he’s fucked!” I was real pissed, you know. Now I’m just raggin’ [laughs].

Who are the players you really admire now?

It’s funny. There’s two types of guitarists. Like Blackmore, I used to hate, because I met him once at the Rainbow with John Bonham when we were just playing clubs. You know, I grew up on him too, and I ran over and said hello, and they both just looked at me and said, “Who are you? Fuck off.” And it pissed me off. And to this day I remember that. And then just recently Rainbow played the Long Beach Arena. I went down there. This is right after I won Best Guitaristist [in the Guitar Player Readers Poll], which I’m real honored – makes me feel good. I went down there, in a way, with a vengeance, you know. I just felt like saying, “Hey, motherfucker, remember me? About three years ago, when you treated me like shit?” But I didn’t. I just said hello, and he knew me, I guess just through records and radio, and he complimented me.

Do you know of Randy Hansen, the Hendrix imitator?

Yeah.

Randy opened for Ritchie Blackmore at the Oakland Auditorium, and Randy just kicked ass.

That’s what happened when I saw him!

I ran across Blackmore, standing there watching him too, and he just looked pale. That night after the show Blackmore reportedly said that he refused to let Randy open for him. They had two more gigs, so their managers switched the bill, and Blackmore opened for Hansen.

Yeah, that’s what happened when I saw them! Ritchie, I guess, was so afraid that he’d blow him away that Ritchie played before Randy. And then Randy came on, and they just fucked him over – you know, equipment problems, power failures. When I talked to Randy afterwards, man, I just didn’t know how to make him feel better, because I know Randy pretty well. I just said, “Shit, man. The more people that hate you, the better you are.”

Do you think so?

Fuck yeah! The more musicians hate you – they’re jealous! The more they hate you, the better off you are, because the better you are. I mean, no other musician is gonna hate another guitarist if you’re no good. You’re no threat. But I don’t really think about that, because everybody can do their own thing, period. U.K. opened for us last year for a few shows. And I never heard of the band U.K. Here we are in Reno, I’m sitting here tuning up, and all of a sudden [in a reverent voice], “Is that Bill Bruford? Whoa!” All of a sudden I got the chills. I was freakin’ out. All of sudden Allan Holdsworth walks in. I’m going, “My God! These guys are opening for us? These guys are veterans!” I mean, they’ve been through it. They played before us, and they bombed. People hated them. But I’m standing there with tears in my eyes, just getting off, trippin’. It was so good. But it’s like they’re artists – “I’m playing my art, and I don’t care if you like it or not” – that type of thing, which I think is a real bad attitude. Music is for people. It’s not for yourself. If it is, sit in your room and play it. But if you’re gonna play it for people, you better play something that they’re gonna want to hear, instead of walking up there and pretending like you’re so good and beyond your audience. That’s what they were doing, playing all this off-beat stuff, which to an average person sounds like mistakes. Even though because I’m a musician, I get off on it and like it and understand what they’re doing. But they bombed, and I couldn’t believe it.

Any other revelations come to you on the road?

Yeah. I hate doing interviews, because they always fuck me over. They always write things, they twist and bend what I say. Like Circus or Creem magazine, I do a phoner with them, and they go, “Oh, just off the record, what do you think of new wave?” And I’m such a stupid jerk, I’ll tell them what I really think. I’ll tell them, “They can’t play for shit. They sound like garage bands, but they have that feeling.” And the next thing I know, I pick up the magazine, and they print it. I hate doing interviews. I just can’t stand it. I just don’t feel I have anything to say, because if I really say what I feel, they’ll completely bend it and make me seem like I think I’m egoed out and that I’m God, you know. I did an interview once with Circus magazine, and they asked me, “Who are your main influences?” I said, “Well, Clapton, you know, the usuals.” And they said, “Oh, not Jimi Hendrix?” I go, “No, actually I didn’t like Jimi Hendrix at all. He was too flash for me. I get off on the bluesy feeling that Clapton projected,” but then I said, “even though I don’t play like Clapton or sound like him at all.” Which doesn’t sound egoed out, because I don’t sound like him. But when I read it back, they made it seem like, “I don’t play like Clapton. I’m better than all of them.” That’s the way it read in print. So I called the guy up. I just go, “Hey, fuck you, man! That’s the last time I’m doing an interview with you.” Which I guess is bad to do too, but the fucked thing is the kids only know me through what they read. I feel like going door to door and going, “Hey, this is bullshit. Don’t believe it.” But the kids do. I ain’t no extrovert. I’m a quiet person. That’s probably why I do all these weird things on guitar.

I’ve heard that Jimi Hendrix was like that too.

Yeah. There’s a lot of people who don’t know me who hate me, because they think I’m some egoed-out motherfucker, but I’m not at all. That’s just one thing that I never expected. Doing interviews – God! I remember once I did a radio interview in the beginning – and I’m not much of a talker, really. It was live on a Top-40 AM station. They’re all motor mouths – like Dave’s real good at it. You’re excited when you’re listening to him, but when you play the tape back, he actually didn’t say anything, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just excitement. I can’t do that. So here’s Dave motor mouth getting the guy all jazzed up, and then he turns to me and goes, “I understand you and your brother are from Amsterdam, Holland.” And I go, “Yeah.” That was it! Big long pause. I just wasn’t ready for a big long story: “Oh, yeah, we used to live there. Grew up there. We came over  . . .” You know.

            The best interviews are when two people talk about something that matters to both of them.

Yeah! Yeah. It’s like I’m not an entertainer with my mouth, but everyone expects you to be. It’s just like Mark Spitz, you know. He wins the Olympic gold medal for swimming, and then everybody thinks he’s an actor, but he’s not.

Where is he now?

Exactly! They just exploited the hell out of him, and now he’s nowhere.

How do you keep them from exploiting you?

Don’t talk to them. But then again, then they really think I’m egoed out. But they don’t understand; it’s just that I ain’t got nothing to say. Then if I don’t talk to them, they get pissed and they hate me. But it’s not that; I just don’t have anything to say. Like the guitar, man, it’s part of me. I just feel like saying, “Hey, everything I’ve got to say is in notes.” It really is. I project more feeling out of playing than I can with my mouth. I feel like I can never explain myself right. No one really understands what I’m trying to say, and then they just kind of use their own imagination to figure out what I’m trying to say, which is usually wrong.

Are you happy with your career?

Oh, yeah. It’s the same as it’s always been. We do everything ourselves. We got rid of our first manager because he had a heavy ego problem. He wanted to be the big manager, in control of everything. We’d say, “Hey, don’t do that. We want it done our way. For better or worse, we want it our way,” and he couldn’t handle it. So we got rid of him and went through a big lawsuit. It’s just fucked. This is all stuff that I never imagined I’d get into. I just figured, “Hey, I can make my music – period.” But I’m handling it.

            You’ve probably learned more in the last two years than you ever imagined you would.

Oh, my God. You wouldn’t believe it. Things you can’t learn in any book or any school.

But you guys have all weathered it well.

Yeah, doin’ our best, you know.

This has been a nice conversation, Ed.

Thank you. Yeah. I enjoy talkin’ to people who understand what I’m saying. I rarely talk like this to anybody that I don’t really know. The only other journalist I can think of who’s a real nice guy is Steve Rosen. I can sit around and shoot the shit with him, but in the beginning when I first did an interview with him I was afraid. I’d get real uptight. I worry about the things I say. But I’ve gone to concerts with him, and now it’s more like he’s a friend too, and I can just say what I feel.

          So how long are you on vacation for?

Well, actually it’s not much of a vacation, because we run everything ourselves. We design our own album cover, we have to be in the office every day to sign checks – the whole corporation or whatever revolves around us. Nothing can be done without our approval. We even have photo approval – that’s another thing that was a hassle and a half. People shooting our live shows, and us telling them, “Hey, we want to pick the shots and then give them back to you. And those are the ones you can send out.” People like Lynn Goldsmith and Fin Costello, a bunch of people, they go “Sure, yeah.” They figure we never read the magazines, we never see them. All of a sudden we see pictures that are pictures we wouldn’t have wanted printed. So we call them up and go, “Hey, what the fuck’s going on? I thought we agreed to let us approve them and just send out the ones we want.” So we don’t deal with them anymore. It was just egos. People have ego problems. Sometimes I look at myself and I go, “Fuck, I don’t have an ego at all,”

            The dangerous position you’re in is that you might be having a bad day or say something to somebody, and because of who you are, they may attribute all sorts of other things to it.

Exactly.

Everybody needs to get away. Do you get enough time to yourself?

As much as I can, because I am pretty much a loner. I just can’t get along with people. They don’t understand me. If I go to a party and I don’t talk, it’s not because I’m unsociable and I think I’m bitchin’. It’s just that I’m quiet. I have nothing to say. I spend a lot of time alone, playing my guitar. It’s just more satisfying. I get something out of it. It’s just a feeling. I don’t like to waste my time acting, because I’m no good at acting.

Well, Eddie, thanks for the interview.

You need anything else on guitars? See, I have a lot of advice, but I can’t tell you over the phone. I’d have to have a guitar and show you. The important thing is it has to be matched – like that certain pickup will only sound good in that guitar. Take it out and put in another one, and it won’t sound right.

Hey, I hear you met my editor Don Menn the other day.

Yeah. He’s a nice guy. So when are you gonna do a cover story on me?

In 1980, I hope.

Yeah, that’d be great. Tell him you want to do a cover story.

            I did one with Pat Travers that comes out next week.

How come I don’t get one?

            Our original plan was to have Pat on the inside and Kenny Burrell on the cover, but things with Kenny got complicated.

So do one on me.

            I want to.

Shit, Best Rock Guitarist, you know. And I see clowns on the cover who . . . .

You don’t even have to say it.

That’s what I don’t understand. It seems like everyone hates my ass. Being on your cover would be like a dream come true for me. See, at our last interview [in 1978] I was nervous talking to you. But now I feel real comfortable talking to you, and I’d love to do an interview with you. We’ll be here in L.A. until the end of February.

###

Epilog

Eddie did get his cover. Sixteen days after the above interview took place, we met at Neil Zlozower’s photo studio in Hollywood and did a five-hour interview. A small portion of this conversation ran as Guitar Player’s April 1980 cover story, but most of it has never been transcribed. If there’s enough interest, I’ll prepare the uncut version. In the meanwhile, here’s a link to the 1978 interview Eddie mentioned: http://jasobrecht.com/eddie-van-halen-complete-1978-interviews/?utm_source=internal&utm_medium=banner&utm_campaign=100th-Article

Photographer Jon Sievert has offered to make high-quality prints of his early Eddie Van Halen prints available to readers; you can contact him at jon@humblepress.com and visit his website’s photo gallery at http://www.humblepress.com/Concert/index5.html .

Please support the Archive by making a donation using the Paypal link at the top of the page!

If you didn’t read this at http://jasobrecht.com , it’s been bootlegged! © 2012 Jas Obrecht. All rights reserved. This article may not be reprinted without author’s written permission

First, a few words about Fulton Allen. This extraordinarily prolific blues artist produced 130 Blind Boy Fuller records between 1935 and 1940, with songs coming out on the Vocalion, Conqueror, Perfect, Melotone, Columbia, OKeh, and Decca labels. Drawing on country blues, pop, and especially ragtime, Allen played fingerstyle and slide on a metal-bodied National Duolian guitar, sometimes using a capo. He sang with a strong, confident voice. His music came to epitomize the so-called Piedmont style, and his duets with harmonica ace Sonny Terry set the template for the later partnerships of Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee, Bowling Green John Cephas and Harmonica Phil Wiggins, and others.

Since Blind Boy Fuller’s death in 1940, his music has echoed in the repertoires of many artists. For instance, his version of “Step It Up and Go,” built upon an earlier song called “Bottle Up and Go,” was covered by artists as far afield as Maddox Brothers and Rose, Harmonica Frank Floyd, the Everly Brothers, Bob Dylan, and John Hammond. “Blind Boy Fuller was brilliant,” says John Hammond, who has also recorded his “She’s a Trucking Little Baby,” “Low Down Dog Blues,” and “Untrue Blues.” “It was easier to get the Blind Boy Fuller stuff than the Blind Blake, so I got into that completely. Blind Boy Fuller was from the Durham area, which had a specific sound. Brownie McGhee, Sonny Terry, Gary Davis, and I guess Blind Blake too, were all from that Piedmont area, where there was sort of a rag style.” Jorma Kaukonen and Rory Gallagher deserve credit for bringing Fuller’s music to rock audiences: Kaukonen with his Hot Tuna cover of the uptempo ragtime classic “Truckin’ My Blues Away,” and Gallagher with the acoustic version of “Pistol Slapper Blues” that highlighted his concerts. Today, Fuller’s style still resounds in the American Southeast. 

Despite Blind Boy Fuller’s popularity as a recording artist, precious few details of his life have been readily available, which adds value to these yellowing pages. 

The Earlier Documents, 1933-1938

 The earliest document in the Fulton Allen file is a one-sentence message dated April 8, 1933. Referenced at the top of the page is “Fulton Allen (Col.)” of 606 Cameron Alley; in the language of the day, “col.” likely refers to “colored.” Beneath this, W.E. Stanley of the Department of Public Welfare wrote to G.W. Proctor, Chief of Police in Durham, North Carolina, “If it meets with your approval we are glad to recommend that the above named man be allowed to make music on the streets of Durham at a place designated by you.” At the time, Allen was 25 and had been blind for about six years. Rev. Gary Davis’ welfare records contain a similar, earlier letter by W.E. Stanley seeking permission to allow him to play on the streets of Durham.

During the early 1930s, Fulton Allen had become acquainted with James Baxter Long, manager of the United Dollar Store on West Club Boulevard in Durham. (In his correspondences, Long referred to himself as “J.B. Long.”) Long had staged musical talent contests, and around 1934 he began working as a talent scout for the American Record Company. Among his first recommendations were Mitchell’s Christian Singers, Fulton Allen, and Blind Gary Davis. According to Stefan Grossman, who studied with Davis during the 1960s, Davis could well have been Allen’s guitar tutor: “Rev. Gary Davis’ version of the story is that Fuller came to him to learn how to play guitar, because he’d only been playing bottleneck. So Davis taught him some songs. If the premise that ‘if I play a song much better than you, therefore I’m the one that taught it to you’ holds up, what he said was true. He said he hung out with him for a while in the 1930s. The Rev. Davis also cited famous Fuller songs, reciting lyrics, and those lyrics were from his very first sessions.”

During the summer of 1935, Long and his family journeyed to New York City with Gary Davis, Fulton Allen, and washboard player George Washington, who was credited on records as Bull City Red and Oh Red. Around Durham, Washington served as Fuller’s “lead boy.” Their destination was the American Record Company on Broadway. Between July 23 and 26, Blind Gary, as he was credited on the 78s, made all of the records he’d make before World War II – 14 spiritual songs and one blues. Playing guitar and singing, Bull City Red also inaugurated his recording career, producing three issued 78s. Rev. Gary Davis is believed to be the second guitarist on Bull City Red’s “Now I’m Talking About You,” “Black Woman and Poison Blues,” and “Mississippi River.” Later in life, Rev. Davis said this about J.B. Long: “There was a difference between me and ‘the man.’ He paid the rest of them but didn’t want to give me all of mine. That was the difference between us. They didn’t give us nothing of what we should have got! Forty dollars for us and thirty-five dollars for Bull City Red.” 

For Fulton Allen, though, this debut ARC session was just the beginning. Playing his National Duolian, he recorded a total of six 78s, which all came out credited to Blind Boy Fuller, a pseudonym that Long apparently created. Many of these records, and subsequent releases, show the influence of other artists, notably Rev. Gary Davis and the recordings of Blind Blake. During his first session, Fuller recorded most of his songs by himself, but the most popular release, the Blind Blake-inspired dance tune “Rag, Mama, Rag” backed with “Baby You Gotta Change Your Mind,” featured musical backing from Bull City Red and Blind Gary Davis. Suitable for parties, “Rag, Mama, Rag” eventually came out on the ARC, Vocalion, and Columbia labels. Other selections from the first Blind Boy Fuller session, such as “I’m a Rattlesnakin’ Daddy,” “Baby, I Don’t Have to Worry (’Cause That Stuff Is Here),” and “Somebody’s Been Playing with That Thing,” contained the hokumy, good-time lyrics that would characterize many of his releases. “I’m Climbin’ on Top of the Hill” recycled the Mississippi Sheiks’ famous “Sitting on Top of the World” melody. 

Despite having successfully launched his recording career, Fulton Allen returned home to hard times. On January 21, 1936, his wife Cora Mae Allen, who’d been taking in another family’s laundry, applied for aid. The caseworker’s notes state that “she worked in the sewing room during August 1935. She has one washing a week for which she makes $.75.” Three months later, a caseworker visited Fulton Allen at his home at 803 Colfax Street. (In these write-ups, the “M.” refers to “man,” and “Wo.” refers to “woman.”) The worker observed, “M. was found lying across the bed; stated that he was not feeling very well. Wo. was out. M. is blind and has been playing a guitar on the street in an effort to help with the support of his family. The possibility of his getting a place on the project for the blind was discussed with M. M. appeared reluctant about accepting any such proposition, but inferred that he probably might if his wife could go along with him as he was not willing to trust himself without her. Relief has been given.” There are no further Fulton Allen welfare documents from 1936. 

One week after the social worker’s visit, Fulton Allen was back in New York City, recording ten new solo sides for ARC. He began his first song, the beautifully played “Homesick and Lonesome Blues,” with a slide guitar flourish that presaged the  “Dust My Broom” lick. The session also yielded Fuller’s first version of “Truckin’ My Blues Away,” which provided the hippie-era catchphrase “Keep on truckin’, mama.” The opening verse of “When Your Gal Packs Up and Leaves” would reappear in Lead Belly’s 1940 recording of “Good Morning Blues.” Due to a typo on the label, the Perfect release of Blind Boy Fuller’s “Big Bed Blues” was misidentified as “Big Red Blues.” Folk fans will immediately recognize Fuller’s version of “Mama Let Me Lay It on You,” a song that had been recorded earlier in the 1930s and was part of Rev. Gary Davis’ repertoire. During the folk era, Eric Von Schmidt adapted Blind Boy Fuller’s version as “Baby, Let Me Follow You Down,” which Bob Dylan brilliantly covered on his debut solo album.

The sales of Blind Boy Fuller 78s were so strong that he was summoned to four sessions during 1937. For the first of these, held on February 8-10, he journeyed to New York City with Bull City Red and Floyd Council, who worked on a farm owned by J.B. Long and played country blues guitar in a style reminiscent of Fuller’s, albeit with slightly less pizzazz. Fuller recorded a total of 15 songs, including “Truckin’ My Blues Away No. 2,” the rocking “New Oh Red!” with washboard rhythm courtesy Bull City Red, and two takes of “Mamie.” Floyd Council played second guitar on “If You Don’t Give Me What I Want,” “Boots and Shoes,” and “New Oh Red!” and was credited on some of the labels as “Dipper Boy Council.” He also recorded three 78s on his own. Council’s “I Don’t Want No Hungry Woman”/“Lookin’ for My Baby” credited him as “The Devil’s Daddy in Law,” while the other releases identified him as “Blind Boy Fuller’s Buddy.” 

The next Blind Boy Fuller session, during the early summer of 1937, was reportedly done without J.B. Long’s involvement or approval. Someone contacted Decca Records on Fulton Allen’s behalf. Label exec Mayo Williams came to Durham and auditioned Allen and two other local blues artists, brothers Richard and Welly Trice. All three were sent to New York City. On July 12 and 14, Allen cut a dozen solo sides. (On July 13, the Trice brothers recorded a half-dozen songs.) Initially, two Blind Boy Fuller 78s were released, the sonically superior “If You See My Pigmeat”/“Why Don’t My Baby Write to Me” and “Weeping Willow”/“Corrine What Makes You Treat Me So.” As far as I know, “If You See My Pigmeat” is the first Blind Boy Fuller 78 to give him songwriting credit on the label. J.B. Long, who was not pleased to see his client moonlighting with another label, threatened Decca with a lawsuit. These initial Blind Boy Fuller Decca 78s were quickly pulled from circulation and today are among the rarest Blind Boy Fuller 78s; the numbers on the first pressings, respectively, are 7330 and 7331. After Fuller’s death, Decca released all of the songs from the session, assigning new numbers to the withdrawn 78s. 

It’s clear from Fulton Allen’s welfare records that he did not tell his social workers of the income he’d earned from Decca – $150, Long speculated. Long, who figured money was Allen’s motive for recording for Decca, placated him by buying him an inexpensive car. He also had Fulton Allen sign a management contract. On August 4, 1937, Long accompanied his protégé on a round of social service offices. First, he drove him to McPherson Hospital for an eye examination and then took him to see a social worker. Three official documents generated that day provide a wealth of details. The first of these, issued by the Social Security Board, is titled “Physician’s Report on Eye Examination.” This document confirms Fulton Allen’s date of birth as July 10, 1907, and states that the onset of his blindness occurred in both eyes when he was 21. The diagnosis for Allen’s right eye was “fundi, phthisis bulbi, secondary glaucoma.” His left eye had “papilloma of the cornea evidently following old perforating ulcer.” The cause of these conditions was listed as “probably gonorrhea conjunctivitis.” 

The second document is a “Visitor’s Report” issued by the North Carolina State Commission for the Blind. Written by J.H. Bailey, Jr., it restates Allen’s date of birth as July 10, 1907, and lists Wadesboro, N.C., as his place of birth. It shows that his marriage took place in 1926, although this information is contradicted in another document written that day. The Visitor’s Report states that before losing his vision in 1927, Allen worked as a laborer in a coal yard. It details Allen’s residences for the past decade: From 1927 through 1929 he lived in a hotel on Vine Street in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He spent the next five years at 606 Cameron Street in Durham. During the latter part of 1934, he moved to Rock Street in Durham. From December 1934 through 1936, he stayed at 115 Beamon Street in Durham. The document lists Cora Mae Allen’s monthly income as $6, and shows the Allens living with four other people in a rented house on 805 Colfax Street. Of special interest is the answer Allen gave for the line “List personal property (Bank account, loans, savings, land, stocks, etc.)”: “Owns a guitar.” He answered “yes” to the question “Has the applicant every publicly solicited alms?” Asked “What type of work is the applicant doing now?,” Allen responded, “Guitar playing.” Here’s a scan of the section on Fulton Allen’s monthly expenses: 

In the document’s “Additional Information” section, Bailey noted: “Family are known to the Department of Public Welfare; were known to the FERA. Applicant’s devotion to Mrs. Allen and dependence upon her for use as a guide and constant care causes her to have to have to spend most of her time in the home, rendering her unable to have a steady job.”

J.B. Long, 1934.

The third document, two typed pages also dated August 4, 1937, are J.H. Bailey’s case notes. The beginning of this document sheds light on Allen’s relationship with the man who’d arranged for him to become a recording artist: “Mr. Long was intelligent about the Social Security program, and his interest in M’s situation caused him to bring M. to the office. Formal application was filed…. Mr. Long was very talkative during interview and stated he had known family for six years. Became acquainted with M. when he (Mr. Long) was connected with the United Dollar Store on Main Street. M. substantiated Mr. Long’s statement that he had been helping the family since he has been acquainted with them. Checks have been given at times along with food, fuel, and other necessities. At present, Mr. Long is a salesman for the Woodmen of the World, a fraternal organization, and owns a seventy acre estate near Elon College. Mr. Long has offered family a place on this estate, rent free, provided they might be interested in going there to live. Mr. Long stated that he made this offer because of the fact of the family were in dire circumstances. Family prefers to remain in Durham.” 

The document next provides details of Fulton Allen’s life: “M. was married to Cora Mae Martin in 1929 in Bennettsville, S.C. M. was born in Wadesboro, N.C., July 10, 1907. His parents are dead. Reached the fourth grade in school. M. has been somewhat migratory. Has lived in several places. A brother, Sidney Allen, who lives in Burlington, N.C., is the only living relative that M. knows anything about. M. has lived in Durham continuously since 1929. Wo. has lived in and out of Durham practically all her life.” Regarding Allen’s place of resident, the caseworker noted, “Family live in the home of Mr. Clinton Martin. There are six people living in the house which is rented. House is a three room house of frame construction, located on an unpaved street in the vicinity of Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church. The section is residential. Most of the houses are tenant houses. House contains running water and indoor toilet and electric lights. The block in which family live is comparatively quiet. Most of the people in this section are connected with the Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church.”

The original Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church.

 A section titled “Health” elaborates on Allen’s blindness: “Vision was lost in 1927. M. stated that he had ulcers on both eyes. M.’s right eye is completely sunken. Left eye is smaller than its normal size. M. is portly and has a well rounded physique. M. does not admit to having any physical disability, although Wo. reports that he suffers with kidney trouble. Feels that he is able to work at such work that does not require vision. Wo.’s health is good.” In regard to the family’s income, Bailey noted that “estimated weekly needs as given by M. amount to $8.75. From M.’s guitar playing he is able to get on an average of $1.00 per week. Wo., when she can get house cleaning, earns an average of $1.50 per week.” 

Bailey’s evaluation reads as follows: “M. and Wo. strive to be self supporting, but have been unsuccessful. Have been reluctant to ask for aid. In lieu of asking for aid, they have done without some things for their comfort and well being. M. is interested in his guitar, and his music is well received by his friends who are glad to make a contribution at times for his playing. Wo.’s employment record covers a series of service jobs. Her efforts at work are halted by M.’s desire to always have her with him. Family ties seem to be strong and much companionship exists between them. There are no children by this union. At times M. has refused offers on music projects because he felt like his wife could not be with him, and he does not like to trust himself away from her. Family feels the need of moving from their present place of abode, and would like to establish themselves in their own household. They plan to do this just as soon as their financial situation is improved. This will mean the purchase of furniture, as they only own a bed. Clothing is needed and a general set-up for comfortable as well as wholesome living.” The Commission granted Fulton Allen $23 in monthly assistance in the form of Aid to the Blind. At this point, it’s clear that the social workers had no idea Fulton Allen and recording artist Blind Boy Fuller were one and the same, but that situation was about to change. 

One month after J.B. Long took Fulton Allen to the Social Security office, Allen was back in New York City, cutting another dozen sides. He was in fine form for this session, as heard on the Blind Blake-inspired “Bull Dog Blues,” which he’d recorded for Decca earlier that year, and the rollicking Blake-ish “Oh Zee Zas Rag,” with its above-the-nut guitar strums and rhythm patterns slapped on the guitar’s body. Hot stuff! Allen concluded the session by covering the old blues standard “Careless Love” and then going totally downhome in an immaculately played “New Louise Louise Blues.” At the final Blind Boy Fuller session of 1937, in mid December, Allen recorded 11 songs in the company of Dipper Boy Council and harmonica master Sanford Terrell, a.k.a. Sonny Terry, recording for the first time. The pairing of Fuller’s voice and guitar with Sonny Terry’s harmonica proved irresistible. On their first recordings together – “Mistreater, You’re Going to Be Sorry,” “Bye Bye Baby Blues,” “Looking for My Woman No. 2,” and “I’m Going to Move (To the Edge of Town)” – they laid down the template for a strain of blues music that’s still vital today. Dipper Boy Council, who recorded two unissued songs under his own name, played second guitar on Fuller’s “Ten O’Clock Peeper,” “Oozin’ You Off My Mind,” “Shake That Shimmy,” and “Heart Ease Blues.” On his own, Fuller rounded out the session with “Shaggy Like a Bear,” “Hungry Calf Blues,” and “Too Many Women Blues.” 

Fulton Allen’s welfare records suggest that J.B. Long did not pay him what he expected to earn from this session. Upon his return to Durham, Allen asked a social worker to intervene in his business dealings with J.B. Long. Among the Fulton Allen documents is an undated caseworker report labeled “Recommendation regarding Allen, Fulton, Case 1465.” The document was likely typed during the late summer of 1939, since it mentions a Blind Boy Fuller session held in Memphis that year. It begins with this summary: “In August, 1937, Fulton was approved for Blind Assistance to the amount of $23.00 a month. At that time no income was indicated except for an average of $2.00 a week contributed by friends [for] playing the guitar. Nothing came up about his recording for Mr. Long – and his contract, until Jan. 1938, when Fulton asked Mr. Penland, blind Visitor, to help him get a contract of his own as he felt he was not getting all he should have. Fulton had been to N.Y. the previous month. He had his expenses paid and got $200 for his recording. Mr. Penland talked with Mr. Lewis, Placement Agent, who said that he understood Mr. Long had taken Fulton to N.Y. on several occasions prior to 1938 and that Fulton had played and sang ‘negro blues’ which had been recorded under the name Blind Boy Fuller. At Mr. Penland’s request Mr. Lewis investigated. He later reported that Fulton is under contract to Mr. Long to receive $200.00 each time he goes to N.Y. and records twelve records.” So, it appears, Fulton Allen himself informed his caseworkers of the extra income he’d been earning as a recording artist. 

The document’s next sentence, “Fulton’s case was inactive from March until June when it was assigned to another blind Visitor, Mrs. West,” indicates that the next Blind Boy Fuller session, held in New York City during April 1938, was also kept hidden from welfare workers. And what a session it was, yielding the classic Blind Boy Fuller-Sonny Terry performances of “Pistol Slapper Blues,” “Meat Shakin’ Woman,” and “Georgia Ham Mama.” Charlie Austin, whose style was decidedly different from Terry’s, blew harp on “Mama Let Me Lay It on You No. 2.” “Piccolo Rag” was another gem in style of “Oh Zee Zas Rag.” 

A half-year later, Fulton Allen, Sonny Terry, and Bull City Red travelled to Columbia, South Carolina. On Saturday, October 29, 1938, a dozen new Blind Boy Fuller records were recorded for Vocalion. Sounding strong and upbeat, Allen was accompanied on six tracks by Bull City Red’s capable washboard rhythm. Sonny Terry likewise backed Allen on six tracks, energizing his wall-to-wall harmonica performances with the swoops, whoops and hollers that became hallmarks of his style. “Flyin’ Airplane Blues” applied new lyrics to Memphis Minnie’s “Me and My Chauffeur.” “Jitterbug Rag,” the only Blind Boy Fuller instrumental recording, featured an unnamed kazoo player. By day’s end, Allen and company had also finished three of the very best Blind Boy Fuller releases: “What’s That Smells Like Fish,” “She’s a Truckin’ Little Baby,” and “Get Your Yas Yas Out,” the title of which the Rolling Stones used for a live album. 

The next entry in Fulton Allen’s welfare records occurred the very next day. A document titled “ALLEN, Fulton & Cora Mae” states that on “10-30-38 Mrs. Allen, Supervisor for Blind Aid, contacted this office regarding investigation to ascertain whether or not M. would be able to accept work on a project.” The following day, a caseworker visited the Allens and concluded that “M. could not be accepted on Work Project as he is in really bad health.” The report elaborated on Allen’s condition: “M. suffers from an Ulcerated Stomach and Kidney Trouble. Stated he was operated on one year ago and has never completely recovered. He is under the care of Dr. Randolph and will be able to get a statement from him regarding his physical condition. Wo. feels it would be very inconvenient for M. to work because of his weak kidneys. Says when she is not home she has to pay someone to stay with him and look after him in this way. Wo. has been working at T.N. Bright Tobacco factory for two weeks. When tobacco factory closes she does find day work or service work, but as a rule, Blind Assistance is the only income in the home.” It’s evident that Allen withheld information about his recording session two days earlier in order to continue receiving monthly assistance. 

Enter John Hammond

 During the summer of 1938, Columbia records executive John Hammond began booking acts for his now-legendary From Spirituals to Swing concert. His intention was to present African-American artists “not widely known to jazz fans, artists whose music had never been heard by most of the New York public.” Once he secured Carnegie Hall as the venue, Hammond got to work finding artists. In the autobiography John Hammond on Record, he wrote, “I went first to the American Record Company on whose Vocalion label several comparatively successful primitive blues singers were being released. One who interested me was Blind Boy Fuller, discovered in Durham, North Carolina, by the company’s talent scout, a man named Jimmy Long. I got Long’s telephone number and called him in Elon College, a small town named for the local college. Long turned out to be the manager of a five-and-ten-cent store, as well as a talent scout. He knew where to find Blind Boy Fuller and Mitchell’s Christian Singers, a gospel group I also wanted on the show. He would do all he could to help.” 

Hammond and his friend Goddard Lieberson, a student at Eastman School of Music, journeyed to South Carolina in Hammond’s Terraplane convertible. Upon their arrival, Hammond wrote, “Jimmy Long and his wife, we found, were big shots in Elon and very cordial. Long was anxious to introduce us to Blind Boy Fuller. I didn’t particularly like his records because he whined when he sang, but of course we agreed to meet him. Durham was about 45 miles away. We arrived to find Blind Boy in jail, charged with shooting at his wife. Goddard was fascinated by the problems inherent in this accomplishment and discovered that Blind Boy had managed by standing in the center of the room, rotating slowly, and firing intermittently – fortunately missing. 

Sonny Terry

“Next door lived a blind harmonica player named Sonny Terry, and as soon as we heard him play and shout his unique songs we decided he was a far superior performer. He definitely should be brought to New York for the concert. We then drove to Kinston to hear Mitchell’s Christian Singers, four laborers who got together on Sundays to sing without accompaniment. Goddard and I found them in a backwoods shack with no running water and no electricity, and I’m sure we were the first white people who ever entered their house. Jimmy Long, a paternalistic Southerner, could not understand how we could visit black people in their homes.” From there, Hammond headed to the Mississippi Delta to find Robert Johnson, who, he discovered, had died earlier that year. “Instead,” Hammond wrote, “we signed Big Bill Broonzy, another primitive blues singer whose records I loved.”

Sonny Terry, Mitchell’s Christian Singers, and Big Bill Broonzy did make it to the 1938 From Spirituals to Swing concert, held on December 23. The original program included a paragraph that linked Sonny Terry to noted ventriloquist Edgar Bergen and Blind Boy Fuller: “One of Mr. Hammond’s prize discoveries on his recent trip to North Carolina is Sanford ‘Sonny’ Terry, a harmonica player who is nearly blind. This will not be believed until you hear him, but Terry plays the harmonica and sings apparently at the same time. It is rather a sort of Edgar Bergen dexterity by which he disengages his instrument for a short vocal lick now and then. He is famous in the countryside for three blues numbers: Fox Chase, in which he simulates the sounds of the fox hunt in a composition deriving in a remote way from an old English ballad; Lost John; and Louise, Louise. He has accompanied Blind Boy Fuller, a popular race-record artist, on a number of Perfect and Vocalion discs.” While in New York City for the concert, Sonny Terry and Bull City Red recorded for the Library of Congress. 

The Later Documents, 1939-1941

 By early 1939, Fulton Allen had been reassigned to student caseworker Bailey West. During her first visit that year, on January 13th, Allen explained some of the troubles he was having with J.B. Long (the “V” in the report probably refers to “visitor,” who would be Mrs. West). “Fulton told V. that the M. who took him to New York to do his recordings required him to sign a contract which gave the Man most of his income from recordings. He asked V. to assist him in securing a release from the contract, and to work out a plan by which he could continue to make recordings and receive all the income. He composes all his words and music for his recordings. He invited V. to come back and see him as soon as he could find out about the contract, which V. promised to do.” West also reported that Allen admitted he’d received “small amounts” of outside income. “Though he was in bed,” West added, “he gave V. a sample of music that he had recorded by playing the guitar and singing.”

The sentence “He composes all his words and music for his recordings” is enigmatic, as many of the early Blind Boy Fuller 78s have no composer credits. The Decca pressings I’ve seen credit Allen. Several other recordings, such as “I’m a Good Stem Winder” on Conqueror, “Blue and Worried Man” on OKeh, and the Columbia pressings of “Step It Up and Go,” “Little Woman You’re So Sweet,” “Worn Out Engine Blues,” “Pistol Slapper Blues,” and “ Shake It, Baby,” assign the composer credit to J.B. Long.

Five weeks later, Mrs. West returned to 805 Colfax Street and found Fulton Allen sick in bed. She reported that “he had an attack of chronic kidney trouble.” They reviewed Allen’s monthly expenses, which included $16 in fuel costs, $6 in medical services, and a $6 payment for furniture. “The furniture mentioned in the budget,” detailed West, “consists of mattress, cook stove, and heater. Client still owes about $25 on these articles. The items mentioned in the budget are the amounts estimated by client. While the budget shows a deficit of $33.25, Visitor does not recommend an increase in the B.A. grant for some of the items mentioned seem to be too much. Fulton thinks he will be able to earn something with his music, playing his guitar for which he called ‘house parties,’ in the spring and summer. John [stet] stated that he has not been able to make anything on his music since Christmas, but hoped to do so later in the season. Visitor reported to William Lewis, the matter of contract which Fulton has for recording phonograph records. In this contract another person received most of the income, derived from the recordings. Mr. Lewis agreed to make investigations to see if the entire amount could not be turned over to the client.” 

On her next visit to the Allen household, June 21, 1939, Bailey West found Fulton sitting on his front porch. Once again, Allen played his guitar for her and also told her of his recent playing experiences. “Fulton said that he played a guitar very well. Worker asked him to play a piece. He seemed delighted. He shows considerable dexterity on the instrument. He told Worker that he sometimes took his guitar and played for money upon the street. Worker told him that this was strictly against rules and that he could not follow such plans while receiving his check. He said that he had never been told of such a policy. He was asked if the form for application was not read to him but he said that he ‘disremembered.’ He played last Saturday in Raleigh at the City Market where he made $2.50. He said that he would have played some in Durham but people here always wanted him to play for nothing. He has promised not to beg on the street again.” 

West observed that during their visit Allen stayed on the front porch and “continually rocked to and fro while talking with Worker. He said that he was feeling ‘as well as common.’ He is extremely thankful for his B.A. [Blind Assistance] grant and does not see how he could manage without it. He told of a contract which he had formerly had with Mr. J.B. Long for producing records. At two different times Mr. Long had taken him and another blind boy [Sonny Terry] to New York to make recordings. Fulton said that on the occasion of the first trip Mr. Long had given him $40.00. The last time he had made $200.00. Fulton does not feel that he was given enough for his work. He thinks that Mr. Long possibly made much more off the contract. It is hoped that arrangements can be made to place Fulton under contract directly with a recording company. Mr. Lewis, Placement Agent with the State Commission for the Blind, has been working hard toward this end.” 

That same day, William Lewis wrote a document entitled “Collateral Information From Placement Agent.” He began by referencing information from the previous October: “A medical examination by Dr. T.T. Jones revealed arrested syphilis and very bad kidneys and bladder. Dr. Jones declared Allen unable to work and said it would take long treatment to get him into good physical condition.” 

Then Lewis delved into Allen’s relationship with J.B. Long. “At this time, it was learned that Fulton Allen is the person who makes Negro Blues records as ‘Blind Boy Fuller.’ He was found to be under contract to J.B. Long, now of Elon College and formerly manager of the United Dollar Store here. Allen was under the contract to receive $200.00 each time he made a trip to New York and recorded 12 selections. Inquiry indicated that because of the popularity of his records, Allen was likely getting only a small fraction of the legitimate returns on them while Mr. Long was ‘mopping up.’ Allen realized this himself but knew no way of doing better. It was arranged that he would not sign another contract with Mr. Long on the expiration date of the one he was then under, April 12, 1939. The recording company and Mr. Long were written. They were asked to cooperate with us in getting the man off public relief but neither replied. On the day the contract expired, both were again notified of the man’s condition and advised that he was now free. A month later as we were about to conclude a contract with another company Mr. Long appeared and claimed that while Allen was free of his contract with him he was still bound to the American Recording Company, 1776 Broadway, New York. The Company was written in an effort to verify this but it simply referred us back to Mr. Long and the matter is still undetermined. Both Frances E. Walker, local lawyer and member of the Lions Club, and Ludlow Rogers, local lawyer, have given advice in the case and Mr. Walker promised to help in any way possible.” 

On July 5, Bailey West paid Fulton Allen a “collateral visit” and made the following notes: “It was decided in a conference of Supervisor Visitor and Mr. Lewis to let Client’s phonograph record producing remain in its present status for the time being. Mr. Lewis, Placement Agent for the State Commission for the Blind, has worked with Client along this line and had made definite plans concerning it. He will resume this work as soon as his summer training at Chapel Hill is completed.” 

A few days later, J.B. Long drove Fulton Allen, Sonny Terry, and Bull City Red to Memphis to make records. During his marathon one-day session on July 12th, Allen recorded a dozen songs. The most popular, “You’ve Got Something There”/“Baby Quit Your Low Down Ways” and “Big Leg Woman Gets My Pay”/“I Want Some of Your Pie,” came out on Vocalion, Conqueror, and Columbia. Set to the “Step It Up and Go” melody, the good-timey “You’ve Got Something There” was later used as a Columbia demonstration record. “I Crave My Pigmeat” and “Red’s Got the Piccolo Blues” were foot-stomping house rockers. During “I’m a Stranger Here,” Allen used a slide to conjure subtle phrases during the intro and breaks. When the group finished recording the Blind Boy Fuller titles, Bull City Red, now billed as “Oh Red,” sang and played washboard on three gospel selections featuring Sonny Terry on harmonica and, most likely, Sonny Jones on guitar. The following day, the trio recorded three more gospel songs. All of these tracks were credited to “Brother George and His Sanctified Singers.” 

The day before Allen had departed for Memphis, Mrs. Emeth Tuttle Cochran, Supervisor of Student Visitors (and presumably Bailey West’s boss) wrote a letter to Mrs. Gay J. Allen, whose relationship to Fulton Allen, if any, is unknown. The letter does, however, provide these details of the Allen’s business arrangement with J.B. Long: “Mr. Lewis tells me that J.B. Long has taken Fulton to New York [sic] to make records. Mr. Long is to pay him $200.00. Previously, Mr. Lewis had talked over Fulton’s affairs with Mr. Long and had suggested that Fulton be paid his fees in monthly installments instead of a lump sum. Mr. Long seemed to understand but had his doubts about being able to do so as Fulton likes the lump sum idea. In view of the fact that this will be the second $200.00 fee within a period of eight months, we would like to talk with you about this case. Mrs. West expects to make a visit the first of the week after his return and hopes that Fulton will still have most of his money intact.” 

The previously mentioned undated document titled “Recommendation Regarding Allen, Fulton, Case 1465” also makes reference to the session, this time correctly identifying its location as Memphis: “When Mrs. West first visited, Fulton said nothing about another trip but early in July, following up on a report from Mr. Lewis that Fulton had gone out of town for another recording, she learned that he had gone to Memphis, Tenn. Fulton was evasive about the amount he got but apparently it was $125.00 plus expenses. He said he borrowed $65 from Mr. Long prior to the trip for furniture and other things. A letter was written to Mr. Long requesting he inform us as to the amount which he paid Fulton for these recordings. He replied he had given Fulton $225.00 plus all expenses. It is believed that Fulton’s wife, who has been unemployed since the B.A. check, could find work to do at this time. She was formerly employed in a tobacco factory and, since these factories are now opening, she could likely resume her work.”

 Upon Fulton Allen’s return from Memphis, he was visited by Bailey West. Her report of their meeting on July 19, 1939, is quite revealing and worth reprinting in its entirety: “Worker learned that Fulton had just returned from Memphis, Tenn. He had gone there with Mr. J.B. Long for the purpose of making phonograph recordings. Worker wished to find out how much he made on this trip and if he still had the money in his possession. 

“Fulton was found in conversation with another negro man. When Worker arrived, the man left the room but, after a few minutes he returned, and remained during the entire conversation. Other persons in the house had gathered in the kitchen as their feet could be seen through the open door. Worker felt that the conversation was overheard by them and they purposely listened. 

“Worker asked Fulton if he had enjoyed his trip to Memphis. Yes, he had greatly enjoyed the trip but he was glad to be at home again. Worker remarked that it was very fine the Fulton could add to his own income by making these recordings and she hoped that he had brought home most of his money since it would be of so much help in caring for his expenses. Fulton replied that all of the money, every penny, had been spent. Mr. Long had only given him $125. Of this amount, he owed Mr. Long $65.00, which he had paid upon receipt of his money. The remaining $60.00 he said that he owed for furniture, groceries, etc. Worker inquired why the money was owed to Mr. Long since the $60. plus his B.A. checks had all been spent for furniture and groceries. She was told it was borrowed for furniture and groceries also. Worker said that she could not understand why both debts, the one to Mr. Long and the remaining $60. were spent for the same purpose. 

“Fulton was, Worker believes, consciously evasive and kept repeating that both debts were not for the same thing, as one was owed for furniture and grocery bills, while the other went to Mr. Long who had let him have additional money to pay for furniture and groceries. Worker asked if all the money did not go for these two items. Fulton became sullen and replied that it did but that it was given to different people. Worker asked if Fulton did not use his B.A. check to pay his grocery bill. Yes, but the check did not amount to very much in meeting his general expense, and that it was most inadequate to care for him and his wife. The wife is at present unemployed. Fulton said that she had looked for work, but was unable to find it. He remarked that after all he had not had very much money, because he had not made records before in almost a year. Worker reminded him that he had gone to New York last Dec., which was only a little more than six months ago. He must do very good work to be able to make records so often. Fulton appeared rather downcast, and said that it might be another year before he could make any more. 

“Worker told Fulton that she could not say just what effect his present situation would have upon his grant. There were many blind people who have so little to live on and who are waiting to receive their B.A. checks. Many of them do not share Fulton’s good fortune as they are not able to work at all. Fulton hoped that his check would remain as it was. Worker could not say but she did know that Fulton had already had more money than other blind people who were receiving assistance and that there were many waiting to receive their checks who had practically no money at all. 

 “Worker recommends that this grant be terminated. She believes that Fulton was paid at least $200. ($225. verified. See card) for recordings made on the Memphis trip as Mr. Long had promised to give this allowance on all trips where twelve recordings were made. Fulton’s constant evasion of the truth during the conversation strengthens this belief. He should have enough saved to last him for some mo. ahead from the proceeds of his recordings.” The card referred to was sent by J.B. Long to William Lewis on July 38, 1939. On it, he states that Sonny Terry had been paid $25, while Fuller was paid “what I told you, $225.00.” 

Bailey West’s recommendation were followed, and in August 1939 Fulton Allen’s monthly Blind Assistance checks were terminated. On the 25th of that month, he visited the Blind Assistance office. “Fulton came to the office in a rather belligerent attitude to know why his grant had been cut off,” wrote a social worker with the initials E.T.C. “Supervisor explained that grant was made on basis of need and that a man who had averaged $70 per month income for the last six months is not eligible. What would he think of Agency if it helped people who that much income? That idea made little impression on Fulton. He said supervisor doesn’t understand how heavy his living expenses are – City won’t let him beg on streets and he has to have clothes and food and furniture. Supervisor complimented him on being able to add to his income, many blind people can’t. Fulton did not respond. Supervisor explained that original investigation had shown that $23 had covered his actual needs but that in addition he had had this $425 during the past six months. 

“Then Fulton claimed he had spent it. Said out of the first $200 he bought about $100 worth of furniture from Rhodes-Collins, has a receipt. Could not account for the other except in food and clothing and fuel. He claimed he got only $125 from recent trip but he could give no idea of how that went except for food and clothing. Explained to him that he can re-apply, if he feels he needs the help but that a thorough investigation will be made of his case and that in the meantime he should collect all receipts for money he has spent. Told him of Mr. Long’s written statement that he paid him $225 and asked him if he had any papers from Mr. Long regarding amounts paid him. He was not sure. When asked if he had a savings account he said no. Fulton claims his pay depends on his records sold and he doesn’t know whether he will do any more recording. Supervisor understands his records are quite popular and this office has idea he will record more. He claimed his wife has tried to find work herself and through the unemployment service but without success.” 

The account concluded with an assessment of Fulton Allen’s appearance and attitude: “Fulton is a well dressed, fairly young negro. He talks well but very definitely has a chip on his shoulder. It is as though he is entitled to a grant and all else is ‘velvet.’ As the interview progressed Fulton did get the idea that the burden of proof is on him and that his case can be reconsidered on that basis.” 

For the next 14 months, the names of Fulton and Cora Allen are absent from the social worker records. During this period, Allen made his final 78s. During a three-day March 1940 session in New York City with Sonny Terry and Bull City Red, he recorded a dozen songs – among them were his masterful “Step It Up and Go,” “Shake It Baby,” and “Three Ball Blues.” The session also produced some of the most downhome records he’d make, such as “Worn Out Engine Blues” and “Passenger Train Blues.” He likely learned “Little Woman You’re So Sweet” from Josh White, who’d recorded it in 1932 as “So Sweet, So Sweet.” As a sideman, Fulton effectively played guitar on Sonny Terry’s otherworldly, falsetto-laden “Harmonica Stomp,” which came out credited to “Sonny Terry (Blind Boy Fuller’s Harmonica Player).” The musicians also performed a pair of spirited gospel sides: “Twelve Gates to the City,” which Blind Gary Davis had recorded at his very first session, and “You Can’t Hide From the Lord.” The Vocalion release credited these to “Brother George and His Sanctified Singers.” The Columbia 78s of “Step It Up and Go” and “Little Woman You’re So Sweet” credited J.B. Long as the songwriter; in an interview, Long recalled writing “Step It Up and Go” on the journey home from the Memphis session. 

Two months later, on June 19, 1940, Blind Boy Fuller made his final dozen records, once again in the company of Sonny Terry and Bull City Red. He started out strong with “I Don’t Want No Skinny Woman,” but seemed to have difficulties keeping his guitar in tune. His next selection, “Bus Rider Blues,” was based on Memphis Minnie’s “Me and My Chauffeur” melody. “Lost Lover Blues,” about a lover’s death, could well be the saddest song in his repertoire. As the session progressed, Allen’s energy level seemed to drop and his voice became raspier – at times, he sounds like latter-day Furry Lewis. For four of his final five selections, Allen chose gospel tunes: “No Stranger Now,” “Must Have Been My Jesus,” “Jesus Is a Holy Man,” and Rev. Thomas A. Dorsey’s “Precious Lord,” sung by Bull City Red. Blind Boy Fuller concluded his recording career with a blues, “Night Rambling Woman.” 

The next welfare records entry to mention Fulton Allen, on the same page as the August 25, 1939, material, is dated October 21, 1940. A social worker noted, “Cora, M.’s wife came to the office to apply for commodities. She stated that Fulton had been ill in Lincoln Hospital for the past three months where he is receiving treatment for his kidneys. Cora stated that she had been working in service whenever she could get work, but that she has nothing to do now. Application accepted for commodities and family’s name is being added for emergency and regular orders.” Fuller’s death certificate mentions that in July 1940 he had an operation for a “suprapubic cystotomy for stricture of urethra.” The last mention of Fulton Allen in the welfare records simply notes, “M. died sometime during March 1941.” A final entry, dated May 16, 1941, read, “Family is not participating in the Food Stamp Plan at this time, nor is case being serviced in any way by this Dept. For this reason the case is being closed as of this date.”

Fulton Allen’s death certificate shows that he died on February 13, 1941, at 904 Massey Ave. The document also lists the Massey address as his home, so perhaps he and Cora had moved there since 1939. The document identified his parents as Calvin Allen of Wadesboro, North Carolina, and Mary Jane Walker of Ansonville, North Carolina. Pyemia – infected blood, or sepsis, as we call it today – was listed as the main cause of his death. For six months he’d also suffered from an “infected bladder and G.U. track and perineum” – in essence, Fulton Allen was infected inside and out. Grove Hill Cemetery in Durham was indicated as his final resting place. 

Around the time of Allen’s final session, Bull City Red introduced J.B. Long to Brownie McGhee, another fine blues singer and guitarist in the Piedmont style. McGhee launched his recording career about six months after Fulton Allen ended his, and many of his initial OKeh 78s identified him on the label as “Blind Boy Fuller No. 2.” On May 22, 1941, Brownie McGhee recorded a tribute 78, “Death of Blind Boy Fuller.” The label indicated J.B. Long as the song’s composer:

 “He’s gone, Blind Boy Fuller’s gone away,

He’s gone, Blind Boy Fuller’s gone away,

Yeah, he heard a voice calling

And he knew he could not stay

“Well, he called me to his bedside, and the clock was striking four,

Yeah, called me to his bedside, and the clock was striking four,

‘Brownie, take my guitar and carry my business on

Blind Boy won’t be here no more’

“Blind Boy had a million friends – east, north, south, and west,

Blind Boy had a million friends – east, north, south, and west,

Well, you know that it’s hard to tell

Which place he was loved the best”

 In the song’s solo, McGhee says, “Blind Boy was my best friend, and I declare he’s gone.” Brownie McGhee went on to form a decades-long partnership with Sonny Terry and fulfilled Blind Boy Fuller’s request to “carry my business on.” Long reportedly gave him Fulton Allen’s guitar. 

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 For more Blind Boy Fuller, I recommend Stefan Grossman’s Early Masters of American Blues Guitar: Blind Boy Fuller. This has playing lessons, a CD, and an outstanding biography by Bruce Bastin, who interviewed Cora Mae Allen, J.B. Long, Willie Trice, and others and published much of the pioneering research on Blind Boy Fuller.

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Laced with images drawn from his Mississippi childhood and subsequent life in Chicago, Dixon’s lyrics explored longing, lust, love, betrayal, magic, endurance, joy, and other real-life experiences. Some of his best bordered on sheer poetry. Consider, for instance, these verses from “Wang Dang Doodle” (to get the full effect, listen to Koko Taylor original version, with Buddy Guy on lead guitar and Willie Dixon on bass and harmony vocals, as you read along http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aVxMBAWr6Es):

Tell Automatic Slim, tell Razor-Totin’ Jim

Tell Butcher-Knife-Totin’ Annie, tell Fast-Talkin’ Fanny

We gonna pitch a ball, down to that union hall

We gonna romp and tromp till midnight

We gonna fuss and fight till daylight

We gonna pitch a wang dang doodle all night long

All night long, all night long, all night long, all night long

We gonna pitch a wang dang doodle all night long

Tell Fats and Washboard Sam that everybody gonna jam

Tell Shaky and Boxcar Joe we got sawdust on the floor

Tell Peg and Caroline Dye we gonna have a heck of a time

And when the fish scent fill the air

There’ll be snuff juice everywhere

We gonna pitch a wang dang doodle, all night long

All night long, all night long, all night long, all night long

For Dixon, writing lyrics was inextricably linked to reporting on the human condition – “the facts of life,” as he described it. Today, he’s rightfully regarded as the poet laureate of the blues.

Born William James Dixon in Vicksburg, Mississippi, on July 1, 1915, Willie learned to communicate in rhymes with his mother, a religious poet. He had vivid recollections of skipping school to follow around Little Brother Montgomery’s band as it played atop a flatbed truck. In his teens he served time in Mississippi prison farms. He began his musical career singing bass parts for the Union Jubilee Singers gospel quartet. In 1936 he left Mississippi for Chicago and devoted himself to boxing, winning the Illinois State Golden Gloves Heavyweight Championship the following year. His subsequent professional career lasted four bouts (or five, if you count the fracas with his manager in the Boxing Commissioner’s office). Guitarist Leonard “Baby Doo” Caston talked Willie into making music his career and built him his first bass out of a tin can. In 1939 they formed the Five Breezes, which specialized in jazzy vocal harmonies. The band performed until at the outset of World War II, when Dixon was jailed for refusing induction into the armed forces. After a year of legal entanglements, Willie was free to gig around Chicago with his new lineup, the Four Jumps of Jive.

After the war Dixon and Caston formed the Big Three Trio, which recorded for Columbia. They were big fans of the Mills Brothers, and their harmony vocals hit a popular note with white audiences along the North Shore. After hours, Dixon headed to Chicago’s South Side to jam with Muddy Waters and other bluesmen. Hearing Dixon at the El Casino Club, the Chess brothers recruited him for their Aristocrat label, the forerunner of Chess Records. Dixon’s initial contribution was as a studio musician. By 1951, he had full-scale involvement with Chess Records and its subsidiary, Checker. As the company’s staff producer and chief talent scout, Dixon had a hand in the success of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Little Walter, Jimmy Rogers, Sonny Boy Williamson, Koko Taylor, and many others. In 1955 he began recording singles under his own name, for Checker, but these did not fare as well as other performer’s versions of his songs. While at Chess, Dixon played bass on the breakthrough rock and roll recordings of Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley. Later in the 1950s, he plied his skills at Cobra Records, helping Otis Rush, Magic Sam, Buddy Guy, and Betty Everett get their starts.

During the early 1960s, Dixon helped organize the American Folk Blues Festival and toured Great Britain and Europe. Audiences, who recognized his name via songwriting credits on the backs of albums, flocked to see him in person. “I can’t say enough about Willie Dixon,” said Keith Richards. “I mean, what a songwriter! To me, that’s one of the names. When I was getting into the blues, it was, ‘Who wrote this?’ I was lookin’ at Muddy Waters records, and who wrote it? ‘Dixon, Dixon, Dixon.’ The bass player is writin’ these songs? And then I’m lookin’ at Howlin’ Wolf: ‘Dixon, Dixon, Dixon.’ I said, ‘Oh, yeah, this guy is more than just a great bass player!’ And let’s face it: He was an incredible bass player. You know, that would be enough. But he’s the backbone of postwar blues writing, the absolute. Personally, I talk of him and Muddy in the same breath, and John Lee [Hooker], come to that. You know, gents. These guys don’t have to prove anything. They know who they are. They knew what they could do. They know they can deliver. Willie, to me, is a total gent and one of the best songwriters I can think of. Willie Dixon is superior.”

Early on, the Rolling Stones established their blues credentials with Dixon’s “I Just Want to Make Love to You” and scored a 1964 Top-20 hit in the U.K. with his “Little Red Rooster.” While making a name for himself in London, Jimi Hendrix thrilled BBC listeners with his otherworldly cover of “Hoochie Coochie Man.” Cream, with Eric Clapton on guitar, transformed “Spoonful” into the classic power trio jam. Clapton’s peers, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page, each covered two Willie Dixon songs on their first post-Yardbirds albums, Beck and Rod Stewart doing “You Shook Me” and “I Ain’t Superstitious” on Truth, and Page featuring “You Shook Me” and “I Can’t Quit You Baby” on the first Led Zeppelin album. Back home in the U.S., Dixon’s songs easily crossed over into rock, with noteworthy versions by the Doors, Allman Brothers Band, Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, and many others. He’s doubtlessly the only composer in history to have his songs covered by Styx, Queen, Oingo Boingo, PJ Harvey, and Megadeth.

Willie Dixon released several solo albums, notably 1970’s I Am the Blues, on Columbia, and the 1989 Grammy-winning Hidden Charms. In the late 1980s, Chess Records celebrated his career with the Willie Dixon box set. Near the end of his life, Dixon collaborated with Don Snowden on an autobiography, I Am the Blues: The Willie Dixon Story, and founded the Blues Heaven Foundation. Willie Dixon died of heart failure on January 29, 1992, and was buried in Burr Oak Cemetery in Alsip, Illinois.

Over the years, I spoke with Willie several times. He was always helpful, friendly, and insightful. My favorite interview with him, published here for the first time in its entirety, took place at his home on April 21, 1980.

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Are you playing much bass these days?

Yes. I was playing last night at the Wise Fool here in Chicago, and last week I was over in Ohio. And the week before that, I was up in Rhode Island, New York, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia.

What kind of bass are you using?

Oh, I’m using a upright bass. It’s a old Kay. My son, he play bass. He’s got one of those from England – I done forgot the name of it, but it’s one of those that’s made in England. He’s had it a good while. And I play the upright Kay bass.

How long have you been playing the one you have now?

Oh, this Kay bass I have, I had it ’round ’bout 18 years or something like that.

Do you ever play electric bass?

Oh, yes! A long time ago, I first started on the electric bass, when they first came out with them, you know. But at that particular time they wasn’t doin’ very much rock-style stuff. I found out that the old upright bass gave the type of things that I was doin’, like the blues and the spiritual things, a better background sound. Of course, the modern bass do a beautiful job on the modern-type songs, you know, but I had one at first. Jack Myers – you know, the fellow that was playin’ with Buddy Guy – I let him have it.

How many basses have you owned during your career?

Oh, I would say I’ve really owned about five different basses. I bought a Fender bass for my son once. And then I had one given to me once. I’ve owned five basses.

When you started performing in the late 1930s, who were the bass players that you listened to?

Well, I used to listen to this fellow who used to play with Duke [Ellington] a long time ago, Blanton. Blanton was my idol. Jimmy Blanton.

Did you ever have a chance to meet him?

Oh, no, I never met him. I just heard him.

Would you practice playing like him?

Well, I never actually tried to play like him, but there was a fellow called – well, we all called him Hog Mason. I done forgot his name, but I know we called him Hog Mason. He taught me a lot about the bass, him and Baby Doo Caston.

This was in the 1930s?

Oh, yes, that was in the ’30s.

You were boxing at the same time?

Yeah.

That must have been hard.

Oh, well, it was, in a way, ’cause I was boxin’, workin’, and playin’, tryin’ to learn how to play the bass, at the same time.

You never hurt your hands, though?

No, no. I hurt my hands in the boxing, but not foolin’ with the bass. [Laughs.]

Oh, no, I wasn’t playin’ bass. I was imitatin’ the bass fiddle, like the old Mills Brothers used to do.

With your voice.

Yeah. Then so when I got over there with Tampa Red and them, every time somebody would get ready to know what would go here to make it harmonize, I would always give ’em the the tune with my voice, and that’s what they would play. It turned out to be pretty good.

Leonard "Baby Doo" Caston

When did the bass work its way into it?

Well, I was fightin’ more than I was doin’ anything else. I used to be around the gymnasium on 48th and King Drive – they used to call it South Park then. As I’d be playing around there in the ring, why, this boy Baby Doo Caston used to come up and play the guitar. Sometime I’d hop over the ring and we’d stand around there and harmonize and sing together. And then when I got kind of expelled from the fight game, I just started to singing with him. That was around 1939. And when I started singin’ with him, then I never got back to the fight game. Yeah.

When did you start playing bass for a living?

Well, it was around 19 and 39. Well, you see, in fact, Baby Doo made me a tin-can bass, one of these basses out of tin can, and I used to play it all over Jewtown with the different guys. We’d pass the hat around the audience and get a little money. And then we’d go off through the different neighborhoods there, singin’ like the Ink Spots and the Mills Brothers and things like that. And I’d always play the tin-can bass, until I got a job at Jim Martin’s on the West Side, a place called Martin’s Corner. Because I wanted a bass fiddle, he decided he’d buy me one. He bought me one, and I paid him back ten dollars a week. It cost about two-hundred-and-some dollars. And I paid him back until I got it all paid for. After two or three weeks, Baby Doo Caston used to always show up. He was a guitar player and piano player too. There was another fellow called Hog Mason – he used to come by and help. And after two or three weeks, why, heck, I could play just about as good as I can now. I just wasn’t quite as fast, I guess.

You started playing on record sessions later on in the 1940s?

Oh, yes. In fact, I was on record sessions in ’39. That was with the Five Breezes. I was on a thing with the Bumping Boys – this is a Decca thing with J. Mayo Williams, the Bumping Boys. Then I got on this thing with the Five Breezes. That was done through Lester Melrose. He was the one used to be up to Tampa Red’s house all the time. And then from there – of course, the years had begun to change – we got the Four Jumps of Jive. That was on Mercury. In fact, that was one of the first things that Mercury cut. In fact, I think it was the second thing that Mercury had done cut. And then the Big Three Trio, when we got involved with Columbia.

Big Three Trio, 1947: Ollie Crawford, Baby Doo Caston, Willie Dixon

You were with them for six or seven years, right?

Oh, yes, about seven years or more. And then during that time I started running into various ones that was singin’ spiritual things, and they wanted to get involved in recording. Then I started recording different things with spiritual groups of different kinds.

You got into the blues a little bit too.

Oh, yes. Well, the blues was always there in the beginning, you know. But what happened when I got to doin’ a lot of these blues groups – I played with Memphis Slim. He and I made that “Rockin’ the House,” “Lend Me Your Love,” “Darling, I Miss You.” I was on that [in 1947]. That was with a fellow called Simpson.

You played with most of the great blues guitar players.

Oh, just about all of them.

Do any of them stand out?

From way back, or the later ones?

Either way.

Well, the way-back guitar players was pretty good, just like Big Bill Broonzy. I liked him. And I liked Tampa, the way he played, because he had a unique style of his own. Those were among the older guys.

They were mainly acoustic back then.

Oh, yeah, they used to play the acoustic. And then Baby Doo Caston used to play acoustic guitar too.

Did you like playing with Elmore James?

Oh, yeah. Elmo had his own unique style too, you know. Elmo had a style that most of the time was practically the same thing, to a certain extent, you know. And then Robert Lockwood, Jr., had a beautiful style in those days, although he played strictly blues. Of course, today he kind of mixes it up with jazzy sounds, you know.

Who do you feel were the most creative and innovative guitar players?

Well, did you know a guy called Jody Williams? “Little Joe” – they called him “Little Joe.” His name was Jody Williams. He had a very creative style, but he got out of the music.

I wonder why.

Well, I don’t know – various things. Different things happen in your life when you’re young, and then when you get older different things happen. But one thing, he got married and it kind of tired him down a little bit. I think he had a jealous wife, you know. But that Robert Lockwood, Jr., could play just about anybody’s style, you know. And then he had things of his own. He could do it today, I believe, because I think he was one of the main influences of B.B. King also.

What were your early sessions like?

Oh, well, when I first started, I was playin’ the tin can on sessions. And then after the tin can, I got involved with quite a few of them because I played with Sonny Boy Williamson – you know, the first Sonny Boy. And I played a couple of things on a couple of Bill’s sessions [Big Bill Broonzy]. A lot of those things with Lester Melrose, you know, was done with the tin can.

What time of the day would the sessions take place and how long would you be there?

Well, most of the time they’d happen in the evening, you know. They’d start in the early evening and then probably end up at night and like that.

Would you have one microphone for everybody?

Well, sometime it would be. It all depends, you see, because years ago they didn’t have all these different tracks that they have in the studio now. Yeah. And what would happen, they’d put the mike into the instrument that you was gonna play. They used to wrap cloth around the bass – put the bass mike down in the bottom of the tailpiece. And then when you play it, why, it would come right through like an electrified bass.

Did any of the blues players have unusual recording habits?

Oh, most of the guys had certain habits, but sometime they would have to change them in order for the various recordings. You know, like the average guy they do now, like where there’s a break in the music for the singer or something to come through and sing the punch line, everybody would jump up and try to fill in this spot, and the guy that would be singing wouldn’t be heard. This is one of the habits that a lot of the musicians had then, and they have it now. A lot of times you have to try to wave ’em down or something to keep them from playing the break line.

You’ve written so many well-known songs.

Mm-hmm.

Would people come to you and ask for songs, or would you write songs with specific singers in mind?

Well, some of them would come to me and ask me for songs, and then some of them, whenever I find they would be stuck for a song, I’d just say, “Look, I got a song that I think you can do with all ease, and it’ll work.” And most of the time, why, they worked.

How would you write songs?

Well, most of the time, if I was writing for an individual, why, I would kind of quiz the individual and get his feeling and his expressions and the way that he talked and the way that he sang and the things that he liked about it, you know. Because the first thing you’d have to do is try to get something that he liked that you feel that the public would like at the same time. And this is one of the ways that I always tried to do. I always tried to get the feeling of the fellow that was gonna sing this song, and how he felt about the various things of life that he would be singing about and how he felt about other things that I was gonna write about, and try to get all these things together and then match them with the feeling that he thought was best, and especially the way that he sung and the way that he expressed things. And I would always work these things kind of in together.

Would they tell you what kind of chord changes they wanted?

Well, no, they didn’t know what kind of chord changes they wanted themselves. Most of the time what would happen was I would tell them how to.

This is how you got material together for Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters?

Well, some of these things I did, and some of these things I already had wrote and I would bring to ’em. Like on the first song that Muddy made, why, I brought it to him. He was working over on 14th and National, and I took it over there to him. And he liked it so well – it was “Hoochie Coochie Man” – that he done it the first time. We went in the washroom, practiced it a few minutes on his intermission, and he come right out and done it. And he been doin’ it ever since.

Were the royalties as good back then and as frequent as they are today?

There was no royalties [laughs]. Most of the time, there wasn’t no royalties.

Would you just sell a song?

Well, sometime you would and then sometime you wouldn’t. Sometime you would think you was gonna – they would always give you a contract saying they was gonna give you some royalties, but you never got ’em anyway. Yeah, they probably give you $25, $50, or something when you first record it. But after that, that would be just about the end of it.

What happened when rock and rollers started covering your songs?

Well, I begin to get a little more royalties out of it, because the songs got so popular until you’d tell somebody you wrote the song, and they wouldn’t believe it. And then when you’d go to the recording company, they would say, “You gonna get a royalty statement at such-and-such a time.” They’d give you a statement alright, but sometime there wouldn’t be no money with the statement. Sometime it would be a little money with the statement. But we didn’t have no definite way of gettin’ in. And the average lawyer you go to, the recording company would pay him off to don’t pay you.

What is your opinion of the covers of your songs done by rock and rollers?

Oh, I like them real well, because a lot of the youngsters and things, I would give ’em ideas about some of the stuff, because there’s no song that can’t be changed in the varied direction.

What was your impression of Cream’s version of “Spoonful”?

Beautiful, beautiful.

Were you impressed with the guitar work?

Oh, yes. Very much so.

Did any of the rock players ever look you up?

Oh, yes. But most ’em was real young at the time. Just like when Memphis Slim and I was workin’ in Europe [circa 1962], a lot of the young artists, they didn’t have no rock around then no more than the little bit that Chuck Berry had done started, you know. So the kids over there was all interested in the blues and was askin’ me about how could they make this in the Chuck Berry style and like this. And I would go to work, just try to explain it to ’em. Sometime I would put it on tape for different ones. Different people over there would have my songs. I sung a lot of different songs and left ’em for ’em, the youngsters, just to learn, because they seemed to like the blues real well. I would give them rough ideas about how to go about it, and they’d put it together.

Did you have encounters with the Rolling Stones?

Oh, when they was young, a lot of times. But I didn’t even know – in fact, they didn’t even know – that they was gonna be the Rolling Stones themselves. In fact, there was a fellow that I left songs with, he was telling me about the Rolling Stones. Talkin’ about this group that called themselves the Rolling Stones, and they was youngsters. Some of them say they met me at different halls that I was playin’ over there. There was so many kids over there in London, you know. Memphis Slim and I was workin’ Piccadilly Square, and kids of all descriptions used to come in there. We let them in at the back door, where they could hear us playin’ things, because they didn’t allow when they was too young to come down front. I don’t know, but some of them used to give us pictures and all like this. “We gonna sing,” and all like that. And then way later, I started meetin’ some of these guys. But I wouldn’t know ’em by their picture, because they were naked-face kids, you know. 10, 12, 11 years old – like that – and then the next time I see him he got hair all over his face and asking me don’t I remember him. How am I gonna remember somebody with a naked face when they come up with hair on his face ten years later, you know. Kid can be 10 years old, and then when he get 20, boy, he done stretched out and got hair all over his face and don’t look nothin’ like he used to. And then I hardly looked at the picture anyway. But once in a while I run into a picture around here and one of ’em say, “Yeah, this is me! Don’t you remember me?” No, I don’t remember. But I tell a lie sometime: “Yeah, yeah. I remember.” I remember somebody givin’ me the picture, but I don’t have the least idea who it is.

Back when you were working as a talent scout, who were some of the players you found?

Oh, I found a lot of different players, you know, at different times. Like Buddy Guy, of course, and Otis Rush, Magic Sam, Betty Everett, and folks like that.

Where did you find Buddy Guy?

Well, Buddy Guy was singin’ at a little old place down on 16th Street. I was workin’ for the Cobra recording company. I had been working for the Chess company, and we had done Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley and a few of the others. Like that John Brim, Shakey Horton, and a few others. Anyway, when I was working for the Cobra recording company in between, Cobra didn’t have no artists, nobody but Arbee Stidham. And he [Eli Toscano] would tell everybody he wanted to find other artists. Well, some of these artists had called me at different times when I was workin’ with Chess, and so I started contactin’ ’em. I contacted otis Rush, and I made “I Can’t Quit You Baby,” which was a big number. Then I contact Buddy Guy. But Buddy Guy, at that time, he couldn’t keep time. And he tried to do a lot of B.B. King-style things, so I was trying to get him away from the B.B. King style. I give him this song about “I Sit and Cry and Sing the Blues.” But he didn’t do a very good job on it, you know.

And then I got involved well with this Rev. Ballinger and all these different fellows that was singin’ in spiritual groups. Then Betty Everett, one day she was comin’ by the place, just walkin’ along and lookin’. I walked out and asked her did she sing, and she said, “A little bit.” She said she sung in church. I got her in there and started playin’ around with her on the piano, and she sound pretty good with her voice, so I made a couple of songs for her that turned out pretty good. And then this boy, Little Willie Foster, he had had a record that come out before with some company, and I done some things with him. Jackie Brentson – different ones, you know. And it was always somebody askin’ me to write songs for ’em, but whenever I had a chance, I would just write songs. And if I thought certain people could do ’em, those are the ones I’d let have them. Those that I felt like couldn’t do ’em – a lot of my songs I don’t give to certain people, because I don’t feel like it’s their type of thing. This is one of the reasons I feel like I been lucky enough to get quite a few of the things into the public, because anybody can’t do any song. I mean, especially according to the way they have adjusted themselves to singin’. But then you can find some people that’s kind of flexible enough that they can understand what you’re tryin’ to do.

Would you use your bass when you compose?

Well, sometime I would, and sometime I wouldn’t. Most of the time I get a thing in my mind. I get the words that I would like to say and the expression that I would like to have them said in to get the best results. And I would like for these things to be a part of life, because I’ve always felt like blues was the facts of life being expressed to other people that didn’t understand the other fellow’s condition. So by feelin’ like this, it gave me the chance to express the feelings and the things that I felt like the people would like to say or want to say or would like for other people to know. And so this is the way I mostly wrote my songs. And after you get words – or vice versa, you know – then you can put certain tone qualities to it that would fit the words. And then at the same time, sometime you got better tone qualities that you would like to use, so you would have to find words that fit these tone qualities. One would make the other stick out, just like a picture on the wall. If you have a good background, it’s a good thing to put the picture on of a certain color or a certain kind. And if you’ve got a good picture, you wanna have a good background. You got a good background, you want a good picture. But you want it to contrast which each other where one will stick out from the other, and will attract the attention to the public.

Would you usually hear the lick first, or would you hear the words?

Well, it all depends. You don’t hear ’em – you make ’em. In other words, you make the words. Say, for an instance, where’s a guy that’s in a very good condition and he’s happy. And it’s something that made him happy. He’s in love, and he feels a certain way about a girl or something. You know these are the things that he would want to say. He would want to say, “I love you,” or he would do anything for her, like this. So you get these words together in some kind of poetic form where they can be properly understood. And then you find the music to go with it. Then the other way around, some fellow would come along with a good tune. You might have a good tune in your mind that you want to put the proper words to it, and you have to find the words to go with this particular tune. So it works both ways – it all depends on what position you’re in and the way you feel about it.

Which tunes of yours are you most proud of?

Oh, frankly, I have a new song that I really think – in fact, I have several new songs that I think quite a bit of. And it look like most of the time it’s the latest song that I’m involved in that I seem to be more proud of than the others. Because it builds on the facts of life that exist today. And then these various things that exist today, it’s been a great controversial subject between the majority of the public wanting to do one thing and what they consider right and wrong is another thing, and what the world considers right and wrong [is] another thing. So you just have to decide what’s what, and bring out the truth in it.

I know that just about all of my life it’s been a controversial thing about religious activities and what’s gonna happen after you die. And the pie in the sky, and whether you’re gonna have something when you die, or whether you ain’t gonna have something when you die. But nobody know about all these things being true, because ain’t nobody been able to prove it. Since nobody’s actually been able to prove it, what I have done, I kind of got these ideas together and kind of put them together in a little song that I have now called “Pie in the Sky When You Die.” Now, some of the words to this song, it speaks for itself. It’s got a very attractive musical thing that I put with it. It says something like,

Hey, you better hear what I say

You better have your fun before you get away

Get you a straight or get you a gay

Get you a man or a woman, but have it your way

I’ll tell you why – it could be a lie

It may not be no pie up in the sky when you die

Well, you see, nobody knows about these kind of things. Everybody wants to enjoy themselves anyway, but a lot of people are afraid to take a chance because they feel like their reward is in the sky or when they die. Or hereafter – you know what I mean? So puttin’ it together like this, that means you better go on and enjoy yourself because you don’t know for sure what’s true. So that’s why I built it like that by putting these things together. Now, this is very easy for you, see, when you explain it. And then as you go through these words and sing it, it will make the average individual think. Just like in the second verse of it, says,

Hey, a lot of crooks are gone, a lot of politicians –

Folks like Jimmy Jones or Al Capone

You say you’re goin’ to heaven, but it look like hell

Because they put you in a hole almost deep as a well

I’ll tell you why – because it could be a lie

May not be no pie up in the sky when you die

You know? Wait – I put the wrong ending to that. The second verse supposed to say,

Hey, a lot of crooks are gone, a lot of politicians –

And even Jimmy Jones

If they get to heaven before you do

It may not be nothin’ left for you

I’ll tell you why – it could be a lie

It may not be no pie in the sky when you die

Well, you see, I always make three or four verses, and sometimes I get ’em kind of fouled up there. But anyway, then it have a middle to it. You see, years ago, blues didn’t have middles in them. People didn’t want ’em. People used to try to brand blues as always a 12-bar thing, but after I started working with these various blues things, I found out that it’s earthly impossible for you to give a complete story with all the facts of it in 12 bars like they was doin’ it, so I started creatin’ middles and everything else to these various songs in order to give a complete story. So in the middle of this particular song, it says,

How do you know if these things are true

And no one came back to prove it to you

So if they got a lot of gold with angels and wings

By the time you get to heaven there may not be a thing

Then it goes back to:

Hey, you don’t know if it’s true

You better treat me like I treat you

You say you’re going to heaven but it look like hell

Because they put you in a hole almost deep as a well

I’ll tell you why – it could be a lie

It may not be no pie up in the sky when you die

Well, when you do these songs like this, it make the average individual think. Because they want to think like this in the first place. But they’re afraid to think like it, because some of them fear after-death and some of them don’t know what they think. You know? So at least it gives them a decision to make one way or the other, because nothin’ have been actually proved. And this is what about the blues, you see, is the blues explain the facts just like are, whether they are right, wrong, or in between.

That’s very well said.

Thank you.

When was the best time for blues?

Well, I think if the blues are properly exposed, the time is better now, because the people today have a better understanding of the blues and the blues are being better exposed. People are interested enough to want to know what the blues are. Most of the time, people have never actually heard. They always reached the decision that the blues was just a bunch of sad music and somebody cryin’ for the lack of something. But it’s not that. It’s the idea that the blues are the facts of life, whether it’s good, bad, or in between. But when people reach decisions on things that somebody else have said, without any experience, they can reach any kind of decision because somebody hand it to ’em. But when you begin to have certain experience of your own, and begin to know that these are the facts of life, then you can look at just about any blues song and see where these facts existed with certain people at certain times about certain things. That make you understand why they sung and do sing and are very emotional about such things as the blues. It’s not an imagination – it’s a fact.

When you were young in the late 1920s, did you hear the blues of Mississippi John Hurt and guys like that?

Well, I heard a lot of blues, as far as that concerned. I heard a lot of spirituals. But you know, they didn’t have very many things on – in fact, when I was real young, they didn’t even have no radio. But after they started having radio, they just put everything on that for entertainment that they thought they’d like, like the Mills Brothers and church songs or anything, just to entertain the people. They didn’t have no definite program of any kind, only what they could get – especially in the South there. Whatever they could get, they put it on there.

Did you ever try to play guitar, Willie?

Oh, yes. I played a couple of times when I was in Europe. When we first started the American Folk Blues Festival, I used to do some folk song things – mostly things I made of my own.

How have the roles of the guitar and bass changed in the blues?

Mainly changed quite a bit, because most of the time years ago it was mostly acoustic. And this acoustic style couldn’t give you the long phrases and the long slurs like they do when it become electrical. And then on top of that, with the electrical equipment, you can get a lot of different sounds to emphasize various things that you couldn’t do with an acoustic. Mm hmm.

How has your own style changed?

Well, from a kid, just like I was explainin’, when I was a youngster they considered blues as just a 12-bar thing, and most of the blues was done like 12 bars. Done like Bessie Smith and all those kinds of things.

How about in terms of the way your hands move on the fingerboard?

Oh, my style hasn’t changed very much. But sometime I found out that doin’ certain things in certain places can give you a better effect to attract the attention and put a better musical sound behind what you are doin’ for expression. You see, one brings out the other. The sound brings out the music and the music brings out the sound when they are working correct. Because one puts you in the mood for the other.

Do you play in styles besides blues?

Well, I can play just about anything, as far as that’s concerned, but I hang onto the blues because I feel like the blues is my heritage. Now, on top of that, it’s my people’s music through many generations. And I feel like, in fact, it’s necessary that these things should be because most of the things that was created by black people have been either distinguished, forgotten, or are out of proportion with everything that’s happening today. And I feel like it’s necessary for the history of the blues to be known – from where it come and how it is and what it’s for.

You stand at the crossroads of blues. You can look back and see the acoustic era, and you can look more forward and see the electric. What do you see as the future?

Well, frankly I feel like blues will develop more than any other style of music, because as the people learn more about what the blues are about, they’ll begin to write more about it and think more about the facts of life. And by being the facts of life, these are the things that people are interested in. Most people are interested in life more than they are death because they are living life, and they expect death. But they think of life first, because if there don’t be no life, there can’t be no death.

Does the thought of death bother you?

No, neither one of ’em bother me. When I was a youngster, people had brainwashed me into believing me a lot of different things that they didn’t know themselves. But when I wasn’t able to think as well for myself as I am today, well, naturally, I kept my mind involved on these types of things because that was the only thing I was around the people talkin’ about then. But once you learn to think for yourself and understand for yourself, you’ll find out the other fellow that’s tryin’ to give you information about something don’t know more about it than you. So then you start using your own judgment.

Besides Freddie, do any of your children play the blues?

Oh, yeah, all of ’em play if they want to. And sometimes they do and sometime they don’t. I have a boy called Butch – he plays very good piano and he plays very good blues and other things too. He play at church. He played out to the Wise Fool with me last night. Yeah.

Do any moments stand out as highpoints of your life in music?

Well, that part has never actually bothered me about the best, because to determine the best, you would have to be done in certain areas, you know? Because the best in one area would be one thing, and the best in another area would be another. It all depends on how much experience and what’s been goin’ down in that particular area.

What do you look forward to in the future?

I’m lookin’ in the future for bigger and better blues. Yeah. And bigger and better understanding among people themselves. And I know if they listen to the blues, they gonna get the true facts of life without all the fiction involved. And it’s got to create better understanding among everybody.

One more think I’d like to know before I go. You came from a family with 14 kids, right?

Yeah.

And you have 14 of your own?

Right.

How did you ever find the time to have such a career in music?

[Laughs.] Well, that’s the thing about it. When you involved in the facts of life, that is the facts of life – people! Yeah. People have to be born, just like everything else.

Thanks a million.

Alright, and thank you very much.

.

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As a musician and inventor, Les Paul influenced many of the world’s most renowned rock and blues guitarists, including Chuck Berry, Link Wray, The Ventures, Jimmy Page, Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, Peter Green, Brian May, Joe Perry, Steve Vai, Paul McCartney, and Mike Bloomfield. As Joe Walsh once told me, “Les Paul was one of the great innovators of the early electric guitar, and he made some fantastic guitar records. To me, Les Paul is very much it.”

Les Paul likewise exerted a profound influence on jazz greats from Wes Montgomery, George Benson, Al DiMeola, and Pat Martino to Stanley Jordan, whose neck-tapping technique is highly reminiscent of some of Paul’s records. Country legends such as Hank Garland and Chet Atkins were equally quick to sing his praises. Chet Atkins first heard Les in the mid 1930s: “It was a great thrill to listen every night and hear him on NBC radio. Les played just as great then. And then later on, in the 1950s, Les Paul turned the whole world on to guitar. He’s just a terrific, flashy, tasty guitarist.”

As Les Paul was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1988, Jeff Beck echoed the thoughts of many of his peers when he introduced Les with the words, “I’ve copied more licks from this man than I’d like to admit.” Jimmy Page is equally quick to credit Les Paul: “That’s where I heard feedback first – from Les Paul. Also vibratos – even before B.B. King, you know. I’ve traced a hell of a lot of rock and roll, little riffs and things, back to Les Paul – it’s all there. I mean, he’s the father of it all: multi-tracking and everything else. If it hadn’t been for him, there wouldn’t have been anything really.”

And then there’s the guitar. Few images say “rock and roll” more vividly than the Gibson Les Paul guitar. During the past six decades, the instrument that bears Les’ name has appeared in the hands of everyone from the earliest rockabillies and the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, the Allman Brothers Band, ZZ Top, Peter Frampton, Aerosmith, Neil Young, and Joe Walsh all the way to today’s up-and-coming rockers. It is, without doubt, the best-known endorsement in rock and roll history. But, as Les was fond of saying, this distinction carried a slight downside: “There’s millions and millions of people who think Les Paul is a guitar!”

****

Descended from German immigrants, Les Paul was born Lester Polsfuss in Waukesha, Wisconsin, on June 9, 1915. His lifelong interest in music, he told Jon Sievert in their 1977 Guitar Player magazine cover story, kicked into high gear when he was nine years old: “I was walking down the street, and I saw a sewer digger on his lunch hour open his lunch pail, dig out a harmonica, knock out the cracker crumbs, and play a bunch of tunes on it. I was fascinated by that harmonica, so I stared the guy out of it. I just stared at him. He said, ‘Here, kid, take it. Get out of here.’”

Soon afterward, one of his friends showed him how to fashion a crystal radio set, which Les used to dial-in radio broadcasts from the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville and WLS in Chicago. His musical hero in those days was Claude Moye, who performed as Pie Plant Pete. Moye, who hosted a hillbilly-themed show on WLS, played acoustic guitar and a harmonica held in a homemade rack around his neck. Backstage after a 1927 concert in Waukesha, Moye let Les hold his guitar and, seeing the boy’s fascination with the instrument, drew him some basic chord patterns. Les’ mother went right out and bought her son a Sears, Roebuck acoustic that came with a capo and a book entitled E-Z Method for Guitar. An early photo of Les depicts him dressed as a sailor, with that acoustic guitar and a large chromatic harmonica affixed to a homemade rack. Les drew inspiration from the 1920s guitar recordings of Nick Lucas and Eddie Lang, and by the 1930s Django Reinhardt had become his main influence.

From the beginning, Les was into customizing his guitar. He turned his Sears, Roebuck acoustic into a 5-string and experimented with moving its bridge around and resetting the action. Since many of his early gigs were held outdoors around Waukesha, where he was known as “Red Hot Red,” he experimented with amplifying his guitar. “First I did it with a phonograph needle,” he explained to Jon Sievert. “I took my mother’s record player apart and jabbed the needle into the guitar, and it came out the speaker. I didn’t realize it then, but I was also doing stereo back in the ’20s. The reason for that was my own ignorance. The only way I could figure out how to get amplified was to use my mother’s radio, and I could plug a mike into that. It was fine for my voice and harmonica, but I couldn’t figure out how to put another mike in there so that I could also amplify the guitar. Then I took my dad’s radio and hooked it all together and put one radio on one side of the stage and one on the other. Instant stereo. I just kept studying electricity and eventually figured out how to make a magnet, how to wind a coil, and what induction and capacitance are. It was fun. I built my own recording machine when I was 12.” His dad, who owned a garage, helped young Les make the machine’s parts on a lathe.

Les’ Gibson L-5, the 1952 Gibson Les Paul #1, vintage Gibson acoustic, experimental aluminum guitar.

At age 12, Les journeyed to the Gibson factory in Kalamazoo, Michigan, to personally pick out his first good guitar, a Gibson L-5. He kept that one for about a year, and then got a 1928 L-5 that he kept for decades. Around the summer of 1932, Paul dropped out of high school to play with multi-instrumentalist Joe Wolverton, who gave him the stage name of Rhubarb Red. The duo billed themselves as Sunny Joe & Rhubarb Red, with Les singing and playing guitar, jug, harmonica, and piano. Les built a P.A. system for their act, but Wolverton insisted he only play acoustic guitar. In 1934, they changed their name to the Ozark Apple Knockers and moved to Chicago, where they secured a countrified radio show on WBBM. At night, Les put aside his hick Rhubarb Red persona and made the rounds of venues featuring jazz luminaries. “That was easy,” Les remembered, “because Chicago was a fireball in the early 1930s. All the great music was in Chicago. They either came to town or they were already there. You never took a streetcar or bus to get to clubs. They were too close. You’d just take your guitar in your hand and walk from one club to another. Every theater in the neighborhood had vaudeville. We lived jamming. It was wonderful. I was playing all night, so I would sleep in the lobby of the studio where we did the Rhubarb Red radio show. I needed every minute of sleep I could get. I worked out of the concept that every minute of my life was valuable.”

Sunny Joe & Rhubarb Red

Soon after moving to Chicago, Les commissioned the Larson Brothers to build him a solid-top guitar: “Early on,” he told Sievert, “I figured out that when you’ve got the top vibrating and a string vibrating, you’ve got a conflict. One of them has got to stop, and it can’t be the string, because that’s making the sound. So in 1934 I asked the Larson Brothers – the instrument makers in Chicago – to build me a guitar with a half-inch maple top and no f-holes. They thought I was crazy. They told me it wouldn’t vibrate. I told them I didn’t want it to vibrate, because I was going to put two pickups in it. As far as I know, I was the first guy to put two pickups in a guitar. The next step was in the late 1930s, when I took an Epiphone [archtop] and bolted a 3/8-inch steel bar across the top of the body on the inside. The pickup was completely immune from vibrations from the bridge and neck. It was suspended, so it didn’t touch the bar or the guitar and was shock-mounted so that it would not move. It gave me the equivalent of a solidbody guitar. The sides of the body were for cosmetic purposes only.”

By the mid 1930s, Les Paul, George Barnes, Tampa Red, and Big Bill Broonzy were the top guitarists in Chicago. African-Americans, Tampa and Big Bill led the blues scene. Les and George worked as session guitarists for blues artists, and participated in onstage “cutting contests” at white nightclubs such as the Barrel of Fun. In May 1936 Les played acoustic guitar on the first of many records with blues singer Georgia White. His standout performance on White’s “I’ll Keep Sittin’ On It (If I Can’t Sell It)” strongly resembles Eddie Lang’s playing. That month Les also made his first records as a leader – “Just Because,” “Answer to Just Because,” and the two-part “Deep Elm Blues.” Recorded by Decca and issued under the Montgomery Ward label, these first releases were credited to Rhubarb Red.

In 1936 Les dropped the Rhubarb Red persona for good and formed the Les Paul Trio with Jimmy Atkins (Chet’s brother) on vocals and rhythm guitar and Ernie Newton on bass. The trio moved to New York City and began a four-year stint appearing on nationwide radio show with Fred Waring’s Pennsylvanians. During this period, Paul forged his reputation a jazz guitarist, jamming with legendary musicians including Art Tatum, Louis Armstrong, and Roy Eldridge. Among the first to play electric guitar over the radio, he showcased an exceptionally fluid, hard-driving style. He often played outrageously fast for the era, using hammer-ons, pull-offs, and trills and mixing straight jazz with crowd-pleasing gimmicks such as quotes from country and pop tunes. Audiences loved it.

In 1941 Les left Waring to become musical director for two radio stations in Chicago. He delved into electric guitar design, building a prototypical solidbody electric guitar that he named “The Log.” (Les is holding this in the photo at the top of this page.)  To create this historic instrument, he mounted a pickup to a 4×4 board and attached an Epiphone neck and Epiphone body bouts. “Epiphone gave me the use of their factory on Sundays,” he told Jon Sievert. “I could go down there and use their tools and work all day. That’s where I built it. It was the next logical step. The Epiphone people would come in and shake their heads when they looked at it. I used it to put the bass guitar lines down on my records. I used it a lot when I was in California in the ’40s. I was living in Hollywood, and everybody – Leo Fender, [Paul] Bigsby, all of them – were in my backyard looking at that Log and the Epiphone with the steel bar. When I took The Log to Gibson around 1945 or 1946, they politely ushered me out the door. They called it a broomstick with a pickup on it.”

Paul had moved to Hollywood in 1943, formed a new trio, and was soon working with established stars such as Rudy Vallee, Kate Smith, Johnny Mercer, and Burns & Allen. He was drafted into the service and stationed in Hollywood, where he made V-discs for the Armed Forces Radio Services. After his discharge, Les went on the road with one of the most popular acts of the era, the Andrews Sisters, and played at the first Jazz at the Philharmonic Concert, delivering dazzling jazz solos behind Nat King Cole. The Les Paul Trio recorded many records for Decca between 1944 and 1947, delving into jazz, country, and Hawaiian music. Les also worked with Bing Crosby, backing him on national radio broadcasts and several recordings. His playing on Bing Crosby’s “It’s Been a Long, Long Time,” a #1 hit in 1941, had a profound influence on young Jimmy Page. “You ought to hear that,” Page said. “He does everything on that, everything in one go. And it’s just basically one guitar, even though they’ve tracked on rhythms and stuff. But my goodness, his introductory chords and everything are fantastic. He sets the whole tone, and then he goes into this solo which is fantastic.”

Les' first disc-cutting machine, fashioned from a Cadillac flywheel.

Encouraged by Bing Crosby, in 1946 Les built his first recording studio in the garage of his Hollywood home at 1514 North Curson Street. There he began pioneering new techniques for close-miking, echo delay, and multi-tracking. After nearly five hundred failed experiments, he finally succeeded with the futuristic instrumental “Lover,” playing at dizzying speed and showcasing layered guitar tracks. “I was doing disc-to-disc multiples in those days,” Les explained. “I built the two recording lathes out of Cadillac flywheels – cost a lot less that way, and they worked better than anything else that was around then. I had seven number-one hits with disc multiples: ‘Lover,’ ‘Nola,’ ‘Goofus,’ ‘Little Rock Getaway,’ and some others. They were all recorded on disc – no tape. You’d get two machines going, record on one, play that back, then play and sing along with it, recording on the other. And you just keep doing that, back and forth. ‘Lover’ had some 24 parts in it. That was played on an aluminum guitar that I’d made. I had a few hits on that guitar – ‘Caravan,’ ‘Brazil.’” In 1947, Capitol Records agreed to release “Lover,” which became a hit. The distinctive “Les Paul sound” was born.

The following year, Les suffered a broken right elbow in an auto accident. He instructed the doctors to reset it at a special angle so he could still play guitar. By then Les had begun working with a young country singer and guitar player, Colleen Summers, whom he married the following year and renamed Mary Ford. They billed their act as Les Paul and Mary Ford. One of their selling points was the interplay between Mary’s voice and Les’ “talking” guitar, which combined lightning speed and bluesy bends with an undeniable jazz sensibility. Although he couldn’t read music, Paul had an uncanny ability to play by ear and a fantastic sense of structure that allowed him to do complete head arrangements before recording them onto disc. He often achieved a bass guitar sound by recording at a fast tempo and then playing it back at half speed. For a “piccolo guitar” sound, he’d play along while the already-recorded sections ran at half speed.

Les Paul and Mary Ford, 1951.

During the early 1950s, Les Paul and Mary Ford seemed to rule the airwaves. Their 15-minute radio broadcast The Les Paul Show debuted on NBC in 1950. A few years later, they took their routine to television with The Les Paul and Mary Ford Show. In 1951, the duo released three of Billboard’s Top-30 hits:  “How High the Moon,” “Mockin’ Bird Hill,” and “The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise.” The following year, “Vaya Con Dios” reached #1. On his own, Les also had a string of instrumental hits, notably 1950’s Nola,” 1951’s “Whispering,” and 1952’s “Tiger Rag” and “Meet Mister Callaghan.” The Les Paul and Mary Ford records singles had a profound influence on many young musicians in England, such as Ritchie Blackmore, who’d find fame with Deep Purple: “I loved Les Paul and Mary Ford; I had all of their records,” Blackmore recalls. “I was into Les for years. Chet Atkins was the other guitarist that everybody was into, but his thumb thing got on my nerves a bit. I thought Les Paul was much better, and Mary Ford was better to look at.” Paul McCartney recalled that during their formative days in Liverpool, The Beatles used to kick off every performance with “How High the Moon” or “The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise”: “That would get the crowd’s attention right away,” McCartney explained. “Everybody was trying to be a Les Paul clone in those days.”

Les Paul and Mary Ford’s biggest hit, “How High the Moon,” was recorded onto tape rather than to disc. “I began experimenting with doing sound-on-sound on tape in 1949,” Les told Jon Sievert. That year, Bing Crosby had given him one of the first Ampex Model 200A reel-to-reel recording machines. “I never told Ampex what I was doing,” Les continued. “I just asked them for a fourth head, and they just drilled a hole and put it in there. They had no idea what I was doing, and I didn’t tell them until five years later. ‘How High the Moon’ was our first big hit on tape.” Joe Walsh points to “How High the Moon” as one of his all-time favorite guitar tracks. “Les invented the trick of speeding the tape recorder up and slowing it down. You can hear that in ‘How High the Moon.’ That song was very influential to Jeff Beck.” Bill Wyman of the Rolling Stones has vivid recollections of hearing the hit record being played over England’s BBC Radio the year it came out: “‘How High the Moon’ by Les Paul and Mary Ford had a great sound that caught my ear. Here was the first example of electric guitar played imaginatively, and it must have influenced thousands of kids my age. It had terrific verve, proof at last that pop music had something more than love songs, that it could provide stylish instrumental imaginativeness. Les Paul was the first person to turn me on to the guitar sound.”

Les’ home studio control room, 1977. At right is the first 8-track sound-on-sound recorder.

In 1952, the Ampex company began marketing the first eight-track recorder, which Les claimed he helped design. “I just went to Ampex with the idea and handed it to them,” Les recounted. “I never did patent it.” 1952 also marked the beginning of Les’ ongoing relationship with the Gibson company. That year, Gibson introduced the gold-top Les Paul Model. Compared to the twangy early Fender solidbodies, Gibson’s Les Paul had hotter pickups, a fuller tone, and better sustain. While Les Paul’s name went on the guitar, others at Gibson – notably Ted McCarty – played key roles in its design. Among the guitar innovations that can be credited to Paul are the floating bridge pickup and electro-dynamic pickup, both of which he patented, as well as various types of transducers. Gibson soon expanded the Les Paul line to include the deluxe Les Paul Custom and three economy-models – the Junior, the TV, and the Special. In 1960, the Les Paul Model became the Les Paul Standard, and in 1961 the company unveiled the double-cutaway.

Les Paul and Mary Ford continued to make hit records through 1955, when “Hummingbird” became their last Top-10 record. They made it into the charts again – with “Cinco Robles” in 1957, “Put a Ring on My Finger” in ’58, and “Jura (I Swear I Love You)” in ’61 – but their commercial heyday was over. A stint on Mitch Mitchell’s popular TV show didn’t help much. Things became tense between Les and Mary, and in 1964 they had a bitter divorce. Mary Ford passed away 13 years later. Les cut an album of remakes for London Records in 1967, and then went into semi-retirement from music. An ear injury in the early 1970s led to a long recuperation, during which he continued to experiment with electronics. Les reemerged as a recording artist in 1976, recording a jazz and country album with Chet Atkins, Chester & Lester, which won a Grammy Award. The duo reunited in 1978 to record another album, Guitar Monsters.

In 1980 Les was the subject of the film documentary The Wizard of Waukesha, which showed his skillful playing as well as his latest device, a little box called the Les Paulverizer, which could record, play back, and change the pitch of a guitar. “Basically, it’s a remote control box for a tape recorder,” Les explained. “It’s mounted right in the guitar.” He also made a stellar guest appearance on Al DiMeola’s Splendido Hotel album, playing “Spanish Eyes.” In the mid 1980s, the Les Paul Trio issued an album called Feedback. From 1984 through 1996, Les appeared weekly at Fat Tuesday’s in New York City. Many famous guitarists made the pilgrimage there to sit in with the master, including Mark Knopfler and Steve Vai, who had Les prominently autograph his favorite JEM guitar. “Les is one of the true geniuses of the electric guitar,” Vai said, echoing the sentiments of many others. “It was an honor to share the stage with him.” In 1993, Mary Alice Shaughnessy’s excellent biography Les Paul: An American Original was published by Morrow. 

In February 2001, Les Paul received a special Grammy Award in recognition of his six decades of technological contributions to the recording industry, including the Les Paul guitar, multiple-track recording, overdubbing techniques, tape echo, and the eight-track recorder. Asked to name his favorite among all the guitars he designed and endorsed, Les responded, “The Gibson Les Paul Recording Model. It’s an excellent box, although the guy playing with a rock group who wants to drive the daylights out of a Marshall may want to use a regular Les Paul, because he can get more power out of it. The Recording has low-impedance pickups, and I feel it strikes the best balance of any guitar ever made.”

During the final years of his life, Les performed on Monday nights at the Iridium Club near New York City’s Lincoln Center. Slowed by arthritis but showcasing a style reminiscent of his early records, Les could please the crowd every time. “My philosophy over the years,” he said, “has been to play what I felt the public would like to hear and what I enjoy playing. The main thing was that no matter what I did, I wanted people to be able to recognize me instantly, but I didn’t want to just copy myself. I always wanted to play something new and different, and yet something that you could still say, ‘That’s Les Paul playing.’ In other words, I wanted to change the frame around the picture.”

In his 1977 interview with Jon Sievert, Les observed that “the one thing I get asked all the time is: ‘How long are you going to keep playing?’ And I say, ‘Until someone tells me not to.’ The day that I recognize the fact that I’m not needed or can’t make somebody happy, then I’m not going to play.” Luckily for us, that day never came. On the occasion of his 90th birthday, the Iridium Club threw Les a party that brought out the stars. Footage from this was used for the Les Paul Live in New York DVD. The event captured Les in great form, sharing the spotlight with Keith Richards, Tony Bennett, David Grisman, Tommy Emmanuel, Jose Feliciano, Steve Miller, and other friends. Les Paul lived to be 94, passing away on August 13, 2009.  

Over the years, I had many encounters with Les Paul and can honestly say I enjoyed every one of them. He was charming, brilliant, enthusiastic, insightful, and very funny. Les epitomized the concept of making every moment count, and I miss him.

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Thanks to Jon Sievert for permission to use his quotes and photos. In a companion article, Jon shares his recollections of spending time with Les Paul. Here’s a link:  http://jasobrecht.com/les-paul-home-remembrance-jon-sievert/

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If you didn’t read this at http://jasobrecht.com , it’s been bootlegged! © 2011 Jas Obrecht. All rights reserved. This article may not be reprinted without author’s written permission.

Les Paul with his personal namesake guitar and “Paulverizer,” June 1977.

By Jon Sievert

I first saw Les Paul in 1975 at San Francisco’s Great American Music Hall, a few months after he began performing again following a decade of retirement spurred by his professional and marital split with Mary Ford. By then I’d been working with Guitar Player for several years as a freelance writer and photographer but I wasn’t on assignment this night. I just wanted to see and photograph him for myself. My parents both loved Les and Mary so I’d heard his records when I was quite young and was fascinated by their unique sound. By 1975 I also had a pretty good understanding of his importance as a guitar player and inventor. But I was not prepared for the sheer force of his personality as an entertainer.

The band consisted of Les with his son on drums. His son wasn’t very proficient, but it didn’t matter. Les was really a one-man band with his Les Paul, Les Paulverizer, and overwhelming rapport with the audience. He played many of his old hits and regaled us with stories and corny jokes. It was, and still is, one of the most entertaining performances I’ve ever witnessed. After the show I went downstairs and introduced myself and told Les about my Guitar Player connection. As a charter member of GP’s Advisory Board, he was effusive and welcoming. I later discovered he was pretty much like that with everyone he met. Then he invited me to visit him sometime at his home in Mahwah, New Jersey.

I saw him again when he returned to San Francisco the next year. I dragged my portable studio along because I wanted to photograph his iconic guitar that he insisted was the prototype for the Les Paul. Again, he invited me to come to Mahwah. In those years Guitar Player seldom spent the money to send writers to do interviews outside of the San Francisco Bay Area, so when I decided to visit an old girlfriend in Brooklyn in the summer of 1977, I figured it was time to take him up on his offer. Naturally, editor Don Menn jumped at the idea when I pitched a story.

My friend and I took the morning bus from Brooklyn to Mahwah and got there around 11 a.m., where Les picked us up. It was a large house but there was nothing upstairs that would have tipped anyone off it was the home of a legend. But then we went downstairs and walked into a museum. Gold records (22 of them), guitars, amps, and recording equipment were everywhere. His original studio in which all the great hits were made was intact, including the world’s first 8-track sound-on-sound recorder that he invented. It was the perfect place to travel back in time and review a career that already stretched over 50 years.

My first mistake was to bring only three hours of cassettes. Before the day was over, I’d borrowed three more from Les and probably could have used a couple more if we hadn’t had to stop to shoot a cover photo and eat. All I had to do was ask a simple question and Les was off and running. What an unbelievable and remarkable career he’d had up until then, and it turned out he still had more than 30 years to go. I’ve seen some other fine interviews with Les, but I’ve never read one as comprehensive as the one he gave me that day. I don’t flatter myself by believing that it had anything to do with my brilliant interview technique. He was ready to give his story and doing it for Guitar Player allowed him to talk about everything, including the technical stuff that no one else ever asked.

Les posed with “The Log” for Jon’s cover photo.

Those were the days when GP was growing every month and Don gave me all the room I wanted to tell the story. When it ran in December 1977, it took almost eight full pages of three-column 8-point type. The funny thing is it could have probably gone for another three or four pages if I hadn’t cut it off because of a tight deadline. I’ve still got the whole interview on tape, and one of these days I’ll take the time to transcribe and post it.

My day with Les ended just before midnight. Because the last bus had left several hours before, he cheerfully drove us back to Brooklyn and told us to come back anytime. Unfortunately, I never made it back there, but he never forgot my name and even called a couple times just to talk during my five-year stint on staff as a GP editor. My parents were never more impressed with anyone I ever interviewed. When I told Les this, he asked for a copy of one of my photos of him, which he signed with a personal inscription and sent them with a nice note. I can still hear his laugh. He was a singular man.

For more Les Paul: http://jasobrecht.com/les-paul-guitarist-inventor-inspiration/

A singing street-corner evangelist, Blind Willie Johnson created some of the most intensely moving records of the 20th century. Void of frivolity or uncertainty, his 78s from the 1920s and ’30s are clearly the work of a pained believer seeking redemption. A slide guitarist nonpareil, Johnson had an exquisite sense of timing and tone, using a pocketknife or ring slider to duplicate his vocal inflections or to produce an unforgettable phrase from a single strike of a string. Eric Clapton cites his “It’s Nobody’s Fault But Mine” as “probably the finest slide guitar playing you’ll ever hear,” and Ry Cooder calls “Dark Was the Night – Cold Was the Ground” the “most transcendent piece in all American music.”

 “Blind Willie Johnson had great dexterity,” Ry Cooder described, “because he could play all of these sparking little melody lines. He had fabulous syncopation; he could keep his thumb going really strong. He’s so good – I mean, he’s just so good! Beyond being a guitar player, I think the guy is one of these interplanetary world musicians, the kind of person they talk about in that Nada Brahma book, where the world is sound and everything is resonating. He’s one of those guys. There’s only a few. Blind Willie Johnson is in the ether somewhere. He’s up there in the zone.”

 The Early Years

 As great a player as Blind Willie Johnson was, precious few historic documents connect directly to him. The most important is his death certificate, filed on September 21, 1945, in Beaumont, Texas. The name “Angelina Johnson” appears in the “signature” area of the document, so presumably his widow, Angeline, provided the information. According to this document, Willie Johnson, Jr., was born on January 22, 1897, in Independence, Texas. His parents are listed as Willie Johnson, Sr., of Mississippi, and Mary Fields of Moody, Texas. The document further reveals Johnson had lived at 1440 Forest in Beaumont for “30 years” and worked as a minister.

On to the second document. A few years ago blues researcher Jeff Anderson turned up a 1918 draft registration card from Houston that may or may not be directly related to the Blind Willie Johnson who made recordings. The strongest details linking it to our Blind Willie is the date of birth – January 25, 1897 – and the fact that it states that this Willie Johnson, aged 21, had been blind for “13 years,” which tallies with a statement Angeline made that her husband was blinded at age seven. But the father listed on the draft card is “Dock Johnson,” and Pendleton, Texas, is given as his place of birth. “Willie Johnson,” obviously, is a common name, and it is possible that this draft card relates to another person.

In his seminal 1959 book The Country Blues, Samuel Charters, who found and interviewed Angeline Johnson in 1953, provides yet another scenario for Johnson’s early life: “Blind Willie was born on a farm outside of Marlin, Texas, a small town east of the Brazos River. His father was named George Johnson. When Willie was three or four years old, about 1905, his mother died and his father married again. About the time he was seven years old, his father caught his second wife with another man and beat her. To get even with Willie’s father she threw a pan of lye water in the little boy’s face, blinding him.”

Marlin, Texas, during the 1910s.

It is certain that Blind Willie Johnson spent most of his youth around Marlin. At the time, Marlin was more bustling than it is today. The city was renowned for its healing hot mineral wells, bath houses, sanitariums, sumptuous hotels, and clement weather. A pre-World War I promotional brochure praised the city’s “twelve modern churches,” “modern electric light, power, and ice plant,” “fifty-four miles of graded, graveled, and well-drained residence streets,” and its “pressed brick plant, modern steam laundry, planing mill, compress, oil mill, three cotton gins, numerous garages, vulcanizing plants and supply houses.” The New York Giants baseball team headquartered its off-season training camp in Marlin.

Young Johnson attended the Church of God in Christ on Commerce Street. The denomination encouraged energetic music making, and by age five, Angeline reported, Johnson knew he wanted to be part of that: “His daddy said he wanted to be a ‘beecher,’ talking about a preacher, and so he got him a cigar box and made him a guitar out of it.” In time, Johnson became skilled in both standard tuning and the open-D tuning he used for slide. Many of his songs were culled from old hymnals, such as the 1881 copy of T.C. O’Kane’s Redeemer’s Praise for the Sunday-School, Church and Family that Angeline gave Sam Charters. “Willie sang in the churches and for religious meetings on the outskirts of town,” Charters reported. “In the winter months he would stand in the wind, playing an incessant, rasping guitar accompaniment to his rough voice, until his fingers were stiff with the cold. A tin cup was fashioned with wire to the neck of his guitar so people could drop coins in while he was playing.” Some of Marlin’s older residents remembered that Johnson was influenced by a local blind preacher and singer named Madkin Butler, who taught him at least one of the songs he’d record, “Everybody Ought to Treat a Stranger Right.” Madkin apparently didn’t play any instruments, and Johnson was occasionally seen accompanying him at Baptist church gatherings.

Elder residents of Hearne, Texas, recalled Johnson singing on the streets in the mid 1920s. “His father was farming outside of town,” Charters wrote. “He would bring Willie in from the farm and Willie would sit under an awning singing as the crowds of people, in from the farms to shop, would walk past. Toward the end of the afternoon, the shopping done, they would stand listening. Hearne was a brickyard town, with nine yards working. There was money for street beggars and singers.” Blind Lemon Jefferson would also frequent Hearne, and residents remembered Johnson singing gospel on one street corner while Blind Lemon Jefferson sang blues on another. Both men had stentorian voices, rhythmic drive, and a special facility with staccato, by-the-bridge bass runs, so it’s possible they may have exchanged information. Jefferson, however, recorded very little on slide guitar – just two 1926 takes of “Jack O’ Diamonds Blues” – while Johnson did his very best work with a slide.

Around 1926 Johnson married Willie B. Harris, who told researcher Dan Williams that her former husband “wasn’t no preacher, just a songster.” She recalled him playing guitar and piano at church services and revival meetings. During their marriage they resided in a small house at 817 Hunter Street in Marlin. Willie B. Harris, who had a beautiful, countrified voice, would accompany Blind Willie Johnson on several of his 1928 and 1930 recordings. According to Michael Corcoran’s article “Retracing the Life of a Texas Music Icon” in the Austin American-Statesman, Blind Willie Johnson and Willie B. Harris had one child together, Sam Faye Johnson Kelly. Her birth certificate shows that she was born on June 23, 1931. On the certificate, her father is listed as “Willie Johnson, musician,” and her mother’s maiden name is “Willie B. Hays.” In 2003, Kelly was asked about her father: “I remember him sitting here in the kitchen and reciting from the Bible. But I was just a little girl when he went away.” During this period, Kelly recalled, her mother worked “seven days a week as a nurse.”

Which brings us to another mystery regarding the life of Blind Willie Johnson: When did he marry Angeline? Her account of their first meeting, in Dallas, was included in the liner notes for Yazoo Records’ Praise God I’m Satisfied album: “He was singin’ on the street, an’ he was singin’ ‘If I Had-a My Way,’ an’ I went walkin’ behind him. I asked him, I says, ‘Say, are you married or single?’ He says: ‘I’m, uh, single.’ An’ I say: ‘Come go to my house; I have a piano,’ an’ I say: ‘an’ we will get together and sing.’ And he says: ‘Have you ever singed anywhere?’ I said: ‘I sing over the radio and at our church.’ An’ so he says: ‘All right.’ We went over to the house an’ we sit down an’ taken a few drinks, you know, an’ played; then he played his guitar an’ I got up to the piano an’ I went to playin’ ‘If I Had-a My Way’; he says, ‘Go on, gal!’ He say: ‘Tear it up!’ We went on back. He says: ‘Well, let’s get on the street.’ I say, ‘Well, look! Don’t you want something to eat?’ He says: ‘What have you to cook?’ I says: ‘Well, I have some crabs.’ I say: ‘We’re makin’ the old-time niggers’ gumbo!’ I say: ‘Don’t you want some??!!’ An’ he says, ‘Well, yes.’ He says: ‘Say! Uh, let’s marry!’ An’ I says ‘Okay,’ that’s what I wanted. He says: ‘Well, when can you get ready?’ I say: ‘I’ll get ready tomorrow.’” They reportedly married the following day, June 22. In Charters’ The Country Blues and other sources, the year of this marriage has been given as 1927, but no marriage certificate has been found to confirm this.

According to Willie B. Harris, her marriage to Johnson ended around 1932 or ’33. “It is possible that Willie was with both women over the same period of years,” Charters speculated in his liner notes to 1993’s The Complete Blind Willie Johnson, “but the relationship with Angeline could easily have begun around the time his marriage to the other woman was ending.” Further muddying these waters is a statement by Angeline that she stayed home in Beaumont with their child while Blind Willie Johnson was off making records, and that sometimes he was gone for up to thirty days.

Blind Willie Johnson, Columbia Recording Artist

In December 1927, the Columbia record company sent Frank Walker to Dallas to make field recordings of American-American musicians. It was the label’s first foray into Texas, and over the course of five days Walker and his team would capture a wide array of African-American musical styles. On December 2, they produced two 78s by blues singer Lillian Glinn backed by pianist Willie Tyson, followed by two 78s by Washington Phillips, who accompanied his gospel songs on a keyboard-equipped zither called a Dolceola. His hauntingly beautiful “Take Your Burden to the Lord” is a must-hear! The following day, the Columbia unit began with an act billed as Billiken Johnson and Fred Adams; Billiken Johnson’s shtick was using his voice to create sound effects such as a train whistle and braying mule. Next up was the Dallas String Band’s Coley Jones, making his recording debut a solo singer/guitarist, and pianist Willie Tyson, recording the only 78 issued under his own name.

Then it was Blind Willie Johnson’s turn. He jump-started what was to be one of the greatest single-day sessions of the prewar blues and gospel era with a slide masterpiece, “I Know His Blood Can Make Me Whole.” He then cut his enduring renditions of “Jesus Make Up My Dying Bed” and “It’s Nobody’s Fault but Mine,” and sang of a pain he knew all too well in “Mother’s Children Have a Hard Time,” one of the saddest songs imaginable. (Columbia got the title wrong on its initial release; on a re-release on the Anchor label, credited to The Blind Pilgrim, the song was correctly titled “Motherless Children.”) Johnson followed with his landmark instrumental “Dark Was the Night – Cold Was the Ground.” He then re-tuned his guitar to standard for “If I Had My Way I’d Tear the Building Down,” a slideless retelling of the Sampson and Delilah story. On December 6th, Columbia’s field unit wrapped up their visit with the full Dallas String Band’s debut recordings, harmonica wizard William McCoy’s tour-de-force “Train Imitations and The Fox Chase,” and the only 78s issued by singers Hattie Hudson and Gertrude Perkins.

Among these artists, Blind Willie Johnson would become the most popular. His records were unlike anything heard from Columbia label mates such as Bessie Smith, Ethel Waters, Clara Smith, Lonnie Johnson, and Peg Leg Howell – or anyone else, for that matter. The original ad for his first 78 – “I Know His Blood Can Make Me Whole” backed with “Jesus Make Up My Dying Bed” – proclaimed: “This new and exclusive Columbia artist sings sacred songs in a way you have never heard before. Be sure to hear his first record and listen close to that guitar accompaniment. Nothing like it anywhere else.” The company had faith in the release, doing an initial pressing of 9400 copies, priced at 75 cents apiece. Their second run produced another 6000 copies. Sales took off. Blind Willie Johnson was soon one of Columbia’s best-selling race artists, and his influence on other artists, especially Southern gospel singers, was immediate and long-lasting. During the next few years, four of his 78s were popular enough to be issued on both the Columbia and Vocalion labels.

The second Blind Willie Johnson release, “It’s Nobody’s Fault But Mine” backed with “Dark Was the Night – Cold Was the Ground,” was reviewed by Abbe Niles in a national magazine, Bookman. Niles singled out Johnson’s “violent, tortured and abysmal shouts and groans and his inspired guitar playing in a primitive and frightening Negro religious song.” A meditation cast in hums, moans, and ghostly slide, “Dark Was the Night – Cold Was the Ground” was a reworking of well-known hymn about the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. The hymn’s full title helps clarify its meaning: “Dark Was the Night and Cold Was the Ground on Which Our Lord Was Laid.” Ry Cooder recast Johnson’s instrumental arrangement as the centerpiece of his Paris, Texas soundtrack. “I’ve tried all my life – worked very hard and every day of my life, practically – to play in that style,” Cooder said. “Not consciously saying, ‘Today’s Tuesday; I will again try to play like Blind Willie Johnson,’ you know, but that sound is in my head. The single-string melody thing that he did is so great, and he’s just so good. And ‘Dark Was the Night’ is the cut. You can throw that lick at anybody nowadays – everybody relates. It’s like an unspoken word.” (You can legally download this and many other Blind Willie Johnson tracks at http://www.archive.org .)

How did Johnson achieve his distinctive guitar sound? In his sole surviving photo, a Columbia publicity shot, he holds a small 12-fret acoustic, possibly a Stella, Harmony, or pre-Kay Stromberg-Voisinet. This may have been the guitar used at the session – the fact that it has a cup wired to the headstock suggests that this was his personal guitar rather than a photographer’s prop instrument. One of the keys to Johnson’s tone, Cooder speculates, is how he held his slider: “I’ve seen this blind preacher from Mississippi, Reverend Leon Pinson, play holding a bar between his left-hand finger and thumb. He reaches around underneath – like you normally would – and gets a very similar vibrato to Blind Willie Johnson’s. It has that quality of coming up to the note and never quite hitting it. That’s a very inexact technique, but it does give you the quarter-tones and all of the strange nuances. Blind Willie Johnson had great dexterity and fabulous syncopation; he could keep his thumb going real strong. He had the best left-hand vibrato – the absolute best. Very light touch, real light, and really fast. But that vibrato, I think you can only do it by wiggling that bar just right.” (For more of Cooder’s insights on Blind Willie Johnson’s guitar technique, see http://jasobrecht.com/ry-cooder-%e2%80%93-talking-country-blues-and-gospel/ .)

Columbia’s field unit returned to Dallas in December 1928 to record sixteen musical acts ranging from Frenchy’s String Band, Rev. J.W Heads, and the Texas Jubilee Singers to the returning Washington Phillips, Billiken Johnson, Dallas String Band, and Blind Willie Johnson. Cutting four songs on December 5th, Johnson was accompanied by the plaintive vocal harmonies of a Willie B. Harris, who remembered that Columbia paid for their stay at the Delmonico Hotel on Elm Street. Johnson began his session with “I’m Gonna Run to the City of Refuge,” using a straight-forward strumming playing approach similar to “If I Had My Way I’d Tear the Building Down.” In the harrowing “Jesus Is Coming Soon,” also played without a slide, he sang of the catastrophic 1918 Spanish influenza epidemic, warning people to “turn away from evil and seek the Lord and pray.” His third song, the slide tune “Lord I Just Can’t Keep From Crying” inspired many covers both spiritual and secular, as did his final and arguably best selection of the day, “Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning.” In addition to the stellar vocal interplay between Johnson and Harris, this song showcases his brilliant technique of playing slide solos in the middle and upper ranges of the guitar. I once mentioned these 1928 recordings to Country Joe McDonald, who responded, “Blind Willie Johnson with his wife was just unbelievable. You’re hearing a flash from the past, the tradition alive. Her singing has a modal plaintiveness that’s a line going back to West Africa and to Portugal and to the Moslem prayer chanting. It’s so spooky.”

Blind Willie Johnson’s next session took place on December 10, 1929, in Werlein’s Music Store in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He performed four songs alone that day. Played in standard tuning, his congregation-rousing “Let Your Light Shine on Me” had been published in the early 1920s by evangelist Homer Rodeheaver. Johnson’s version jumped tempos, moving from slow chordal rhythms to chugging strumming to flashy bass runs. Johnson re-entered the slide zone in “God Don’t Never Change,” once again singing of the influenza epidemic. He also played slide on one of his gentlest, most laid-back recordings, “Bye and Bye I’m Goin’ to See the King.” He re-tuned to standard and resurrected his gruff voice for a lackluster, slightly out-of-tune version of the white gospel hymn “Sweeter as the Years Go By.” As Samuel Charters wrote of the song in his liner notes for Legacy’s The Complete Blind Willie Johnson, “For once the guitar accompaniment sounded clumsy and ordinary. He seemed to be running out of material, as happened to all but a handful of country singers, and he drifted into a style of song and playing that was badly suited to his own way of performing.”

Johnson hit his stride the following day, when he was accompanied by an unidentified female singer on five of his six selections. “Who she is will probably never be known,” Charters wrote. “It’s been suggested that she was someone he met at one of the New Orleans churches. She had a strong voice, but with only a little of the sensitivity of Willie Harris. Also, she clearly had not sung with him very much.” They began with the passionate slide tune “You’ll Need Somebody on Your Bond,” which Johnson would re-cut with Willie Harris at his final session four months later. Johnson re-tuned his guitar to standard and put away his slider for the next four songs. The bright-toned bass figures in “When the War Was On,” “Praise God I’m Satisfied,” “Take Your Burden to the Lord and Leave It There,” and “Take a Stand” fit the Texas country blues tradition of Blind Lemon Jefferson, and suggest that Johnson may have used a pick at the session. For his final song, Johnson re-tuned to open D and used a slider. Performing alone, he produced one of his very best records – “God Moves on the Water,” an exhilarating account of the Titanic tragedy. “I love ‘God Moves on the Water’ so much,” Cooder says. “That thing is like a roller coaster. He’s got an energy wave in there that he’s surfing across the face of that tune so mighty. He hits a chorus, and it’s just like ice skating or downhill racing. It’s an awesome physical thing that happens.”

Willie Harris was on hand – and in fine form – at Blind Willie Johnson’s final session, held in Atlanta on Sunday, April 20, 1930. In all, the duo recorded ten songs. The engineer moved Harris close to the microphone, and her sweet vocals imparted a lulling effect to the music. Singing call-and-response and harmony vocals in a gentle voice, Johnson effectively used his slide in “Can’t Nobody Hide from God,” which gave Harris as prominent a vocal role as his. Harris sang lead vocals in a rather lackluster version of the old white hymn “If It Had Not Been for Jesus.” As Charters aptly wrote of the tune, “It’s sentimentality and melodic triteness was poorly suited to Johnson’s style. It’s in 3/4 time, with simple chords, and his playing was limited to ordinary accompaniment. She sang the verses, and they sang in unison on the choruses. Her voice was sweet and direct, but nothing could help the song.” The pair followed the same pattern on the strangely titled “Go to Me With That Land,” which fans of 1960s folk music will recognize as “Come and Go With Me.”

Johnson and Harris picked up the pace for “The Rain Don’t Fall on Me,” “Trouble Will Soon Be Over,” “The Soul of a Man,” and “Everybody Ought to Treat a Stranger Right.” Still playing in standard tuning and without a slide, Johnson balanced chord strums with bass runs on these selections. Next came a rousing rendition of “Church I’m Fully Saved Today.” As Charters pointed out, “The form is a call and response, and he played an alternate chord strum that had some of the free swing of a jazz group. It isn’t difficult to close your eyes and hear the song with tambourines and more guitars – the entire congregation joined in on the responses, feet stamping on the floor and hands clapping. With only two voices and his guitar they caught the whole mood of Southern evangelism.” Johnson and Harris followed with another classic, “John the Revelator.” Johnson re-tuned to open D and used a slide on the final song, “You’re Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond,” which surpasses the version he’d recorded months earlier in New Orleans.

By 1930, the Depression was in full swing, and Columbia saw a precipitous drop in their record sales. Still, Blind Willie Johnson continued to outsell Bessie Smith and most of the label’s country blues artists. The company pressed a total of 2595 copies of the first release from Johnson’s 1930 session, “John the Revelator”/“You’re Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond,” which came out that October. By contrast, only 800 copies were made of “Everybody Ought to Treat a Stranger Right”/“Go to Me with That Land,” making it one of the rarest of his 78s. The Depression deepened, and only 900 copies were pressed of the final Blind Willie Johnson 78 issued by Columbia, “Sweeter as the Years Go By”/“Take Your Stand,” which came out in October 1931. Blind Willie Johnson never recorded again for a major label. Angeline told Charters of their recording songs together at a small studio in Beaumont, but no record survives from this session.

The Later Years

After his final Columbia session, Blind Willie Johnson returned to Beaumont, where he’d live the rest of his life. Located along the Gulf of Mexico, Beaumont had been a major oil producer since the turn of the century. During the 1930s, the Work Projects Administration (WPA) ordered members of its Writers’ Program to prepare a report on Beaumont, which in 1930 had a population of 57,700. “The influx of Negro labor for the refineries, shipyards and wharves and for domestic services has increased this part of the population to nearly one-third of the total,” the WPA reported. “The city has a considerable Negro section with a motion picture theater, offices, churches, schools, stores, and many attractive homes. This section has its own lawyers, ministers, dentists, doctors, and teachers. Among its residents, however, there are those who practice ‘charms,’ whose lives are ruled by superstition, and whose picturesque manner of speech has crept into the current idiom.”

In Beaumont, Johnson sang at Mount Olive Baptist Church, sometimes accompanying the Silver Fleece Quartet and other younger singers. He also played along Forsythe Street, which ran through the heart of the city. In his later years, Charters described, Johnson “was heavier, his head usually shaved close. He dressed as neatly as he could, and the storekeepers along Forsythe remember him as a gentle, dignified man. During the winter, Angeline would lead him into the business district, and they would sing together in the noise and crowds of downtown Beaumont. Except for religious meetings like the encampment of the South Texas Missionary Baptist Association in Houston, they traveled very little.”

But according to Atlanta bluesman Blind Willie McTell, Johnson did travel extensively. Willie Harris recalled that the two men met in April 1930, when she and Johnson came to Atlanta to cut his final records. Three days earlier, McTell had recorded two songs of his own, “Talkin’ to Myself” and “Razor Ball.” (R.M.W. Dixon and J. Godrich’s essential reference book Blues & Gospel Records 1902-1943 lists McTell as playing guitar on Blind Willie Johnson’s final session, but the 78s themselves reveal that Johnson is the only guitarist.) During his 1940 Library of Congress session in Atlanta, McTell told John Lomax, “Blind Willie Johnson was a personal pal of mine. He and I played together on many different parts of the states and different parts of the country from Maine to Mobile Bay.” McTell recalled that Johnson used a steel ring for slide and that the two of them enjoyed playing “I Got to Cross the River Jordan” together. Lomax asked McTell if Johnson was a “good guitar picker.” McTell responded, “Excellent good!”

To my ears, it sounds as if Johnson had more influence on McTell than vice-versa. For instance, at their 1935 Decca session in Chicago, Blind Willie McTell and his wife Kate performed several old-time gospel slide tunes reminiscent of Blind Willie Johnson with Willie Harris. In addition, McTell’s 1940 L.O.C. performances of “I Got to Cross the River Jordan,” “Old Time Religion,” and “Amazing Grace” recalled Blind Willie Johnson’s 78s, especially in the way he’d use his slider to produce a string of notes and harmonic overtones from a single strike of the string. Lomax, in fact, introduced “I Got to Cross the River Jordan” by saying, “This is a song played by Blind Willie McTell, which he says he used to sing and play with Blind Willie Johnson.” McTell then quickly added, “This is a song that I’m gonna play that we all used to play in the country – an old jubilee melody.” Unlike Johnson, who played in open D, McTell played his version in open G capoed up two frets.

During World War II, Johnson reportedly broadcast spiritual music over radio stations KTEM in Temple, Texas, and KPLC in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Michael Corcoran’s painstaking research in Beaumont turned up a 1944 city directory that lists a Rev. W.J. Johnson operating the House of Prayer at 1440 Forest Street, which is the same address that appears on Blind Willie Johnson’s death certificate. If reports are accurate, Johnson’s death on September 18, 1945, was sad and avoidable. According to Angeline, their house caught fire. Afterwards, Johnson and his wife slept on a bed of newspapers atop the damp, charred remains. “He was sick the next morning,” Charters reported, “but he went out into the streets to try to earn a little money singing.” His condition worsened, and Angeline took him to a hospital. “They wouldn’t accept him,” she reported. “He’d be living today if they’d accepted him. They wouldn’t accept him because he was blind. Blind folks has a hard time.”

Johnny Winter was living in Beaumont at the time this occurred. “Boy, I really loved him,” Winter told me. “Some of his music was just the most amazing stuff I’ve ever heard. And there’s that record where Samuel Charters talked to his wife – I can’t listen to that without crying. I never met anyone who knew him, but he was there all that time. I wasn’t but five years old when he died. I heard they wouldn’t let him in the hospital because he was blind and black.” Blind Willie Johnson’s death certificate lists “malarial fever” as the primary cause, with “syphilis and blindness” as contributory causes. He was buried in the “colored section” of the Blanchette Cemetery in Beaumont.

Over the years, Blind Willie Johnson’s music has become deeply embedded in American culture. Its first inroads to a new generation came in 1950, when Folkways Records reissued “Dark Was the Night – Cold Was the Ground” and “Lord I Just Can’t Keep From Crying” on their anthology Jazz, Vol. 2: The Blues. Two years later, “John the Revelator” was included on Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music. In 1957, Folkways issued Blind Willie Johnson: His Story, Told, Annotated and Documented by Samuel B. Charters. The first LP dedicated entirely to Blind Willie Johnson, this included the Angeline Johnson audio interview referred to by Johnny Winter.

During the early 1960s, Rev. Gary Davis taught Blind Willie Johnson’s music to up-and-coming folkies. Davis’ own version of “If I Had My Way I’d Tear the Building Down,” which he sometimes titled “Samson and Delilah,” and “Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning” inspired many subsequent covers. On his 1962 debut album, Bob Dylan recast “Jesus Make Up My Dying Bed” as “In My Time of Dying.” Peter, Paul & Mary recorded popular versions of “If I Had My Way” and “Go to Me With That Land,” which they properly re-titled “Come and Go With Me.” “You’re Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond” was recorded by artists as diverse as Buffy Sainte-Marie, Donovan, Captain Beefheart, and Taj Mahal. I once had the pleasure of interviewing Pops Staples in a hotel room in San Francisco. When I asked about the guitar sound on vintage Staple Singers records, he picked up his guitar and played “Nobody’s Fault But Mine.” “Blind Willie Johnson,” he said afterward with a smile. “That’s where I got that from.”

There’s a thin, sometimes indistinguishable, line between Blind Willie Johnson’s spiritual songs and old-time country blues, and it’s no surprise that many blues musicians adapted songs he popularized. Son House, for instance, recorded “Motherless Children” and a sublime a-cappella “John the Revelator.” Accompanied by the Hunter’s Chapel Singers, Mississippi Fred McDowell’s recorded a wonderful version of “Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning” on Testment Records’ Amazing Grace album. Texas bluesman Mance Lipscomb delighted concert audiences and record buyers with his pocketknife-slide versions of “God Moves on the Water,” “Nobody’s Fault But Mine,” and “Motherless Children,” which he said he learned from Johnson himself. Blind Willie Johnson entered into the rock and modern blues mainstreams through covers by the Blues Project, Led Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead, Ten Years After, Jorma Kaukonen, Eric Clapton, Phil Keaggy, Dave Hole, Ben Harper, Bruce Springsteen, the White Stripes, and many others. In 2003, Martin Scorsese named an episode of his seven-part BBC series, The Blues, after Johnson’s song “Soul of a Man.”

Blind Willie Johnson in the Zone

In 1977 NASA launched its Voyager 1 spacecraft to study our solar system and beyond. In case it’s ever discovered by extraterrestrials, included onboard is a gold-plated disc containing images, videos, and sounds of life on earth. Its contents were selected by a committee chaired by Carl Sagan. Among its “The Sounds of the Earth” tracks are selections from Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, and Stravinsky, as well as Louis Armstrong and His Hot Seven’s “Melancholy Blues,” Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode,” and – you guessed it – Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was the Night – Cold Was the Ground.”

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For Further Reading:

Blind Willie McTell: http://jasobrecht.com/blind-willie-mctell-life-music/

Son House: http://jasobrecht.com/son-house-deep-mississippi-delta-blues/

Pops Staples: http://jasobrecht.com/pops-staples-interview-playing-for-peace/

Ry Cooder: http://jasobrecht.com/ry-cooder-%e2%80%93-talking-country-blues-and-gospel/

Michael Corcoran’s article: http://www.austin360.com/music/content/music/blindwilliejohnson_092803.html

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If you didn’t read this at http://jasobrecht.com , it’s been bootlegged! © 2011 Jas Obrecht. All rights reserved. This article may not be reprinted without author’s written permission.

In 1969, the Rolling Stones, midway through the Let It Bleed sessions, fired Brian Jones, who perished a few weeks later. The band brought in Mick Taylor as his replacement. Keith Richards recounted in recent autobiography, Life: “No surprise to us, how good he was. He seemed to just step in naturally at the time.” Taylor’s first contributions to the Rolling Stones was overdubbing electric guitar on “Honky Tonk Women” and performing for 250,000 fans at the July 5, 1969, concert in London’s Hyde Park. In all, Mick Taylor spent six years in the Rolling Stones, touring the world and playing on the classic albums Let It Bleed, Get Your Ya-Ya’s Out, Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street, Goat’s Head Soup, It’s Only Rock and Roll, and Metamorphosis. “We did the most brilliant stuff together, some of the most brilliant stuff the Stones ever did,” Keith wrote of Mick. “Everything was there in his playing – the melodic touch, a beautiful sustain and a way of reading a song. He had a lovely sound, some very soulful stuff. He’d get to where I was going even before I did. . . . I loved the guy, loved to work with him, but he was very shy and very distant.” Soon after 1975’s It’s Only Rock and Roll sessions, Mick quit the Stones.

My encounter with Mick Taylor took place four years later, at another high point in his career. He’d just finished recording his debut solo, the self-titled Mick Taylor, for Columbia Records. Rather than go the route of importing famous musicians, Taylor had played most of the instruments himself. His guitar playing. I thought, was spectacular, and in person, Mick turned out to be humble and gracious. Our two-hour interview took place on June 22, 1979, while Mick was in Los Angeles. Portions of this 11,000-word conversation appeared in the February 1980 issue of Guitar Player magazine. Here, for the first time, is the complete, unedited version.

In the Beginning

If it’s alright with you, Mick, I’d like to cover your whole career.

Okay. The ball’s in your court. You just ask the questions, and I’ll try and answer them.

When and where were you born?

’48, in Hatfield, Hertfordshire.

Were others in your family into music?

Very, very much so. They weren’t musicians. Well, my mother used to play the piano a little bit. She used to play piano in the pub. But I was always surrounded by music. And my mother had a younger brother who was very into ’50s rock and roll. And so that was really the kind of music I first heard, even before I started playing guitar.

Would that be like Bill Haley?

Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard.

When did you decide that you wanted to play an instrument?

My mother’s younger brother, he played the guitar. His name was John. He had a guitar, a big, old semi-acoustic guitar. I think it was a Hofner guitar. I used to come home from school at lunch time – I used to have lunch at my grandmother’s – and he would be out of work. This is my grandmother on my mother’s side. He would be out of work, and after I’d had my lunch and before I had to go back to school, I’d go up in his bedroom and play his guitar. And that’s kind of how it started. [Laughs.] That’s when I was about nine or ten years old.

When did you start getting into blues?

As my interest in the guitar developed, my interest in blues music in general developed. By the time I was 14 or 15, I was into blues and I was buying blues records – as many as I could get a hold of. They weren’t very accessible at the time. I mean, they weren’t very accessible here, either, unless you went to the right area, the right record shops. It’s strange, but in London they were even more inaccessible. But in a strange kind of way, the whole blues thing did start in London – I mean, amongst white musicians, anyway. There used to be a couple of tiny little record shops in Soho that just specialized in importing blues records from America, and they were all on tiny, little obscure labels. I used to buy Elmore James records, Sonny Boy Williamson records, B.B. King records, Freddie King, all of the really well known black blues guitarists.

Did you start learning licks off of records?

Yeah. I just listened to them and tried to play them.

You’d play along?

Yeah, I’d play along with records, yeah.

Did anyone teach you anything in the beginning?

My Uncle John, he taught me some chords. That’s the only thing that anybody else showed me. For the rest of it I just kind of absorbed the spirit of rhythm and blues, I suppose, over the years through listening to it all the time. And practicing, you know. I played with some friends were who also into that kind of music too. Played in various local little bands until I was about 17.

Was one of those bands the Gods?

Yeah. You’ve heard of them?

Yeah.

Yeah. Well, we never really did anything. We never made a record or anything. But it’s quite interesting in a historical sense, I suppose, because the piano player/organist that I played with at the time is the keyboard player with Uriah Heep now. His name is Ken Hensley.

Were you playing mostly blues?

Yeah, mostly blues, but we used to do a lot of Booker T instrumentals and a lot of Otis Redding and Wilson Pickett stuff. I’ve always like that Memphis Stax R&B stuff. Yeah, it’s great, some of that stuff.

The John Mayall Era

When you were 15 you jammed with John Mayall at the Polytechnic?

That’s right, yeah.

How did that happen?

Well, Eric Clapton was with him, and he didn’t show up for the gig. I was there with my friends to watch the show. We watched the first set, which was about an hour long, and Eric just wasn’t there. I’d kind of gone along to see Eric Clapton and John Mayall, you know, and Eric Clapton wasn’t there. With a lot of prompting from my friends, I got up on the stage and played the second set. I went backstage and asked John if I could play. I was very nervous! [Laughs.] I was still kind of learning how to play blues guitar then; I wasn’t really that good.

Did Mayall have a guitar for you?

Well, Eric’s guitar was there, but Eric wasn’t, you see. So I just played his guitar. It was a Les Paul – I think it was probably a 1958 Les Paul. He was playing it through a small Marshall combo amp. They’ve started remaking them now. They used to be about 60 watts and they had four 10-inch speakers.

How did that show go?

[Laughs.] It went great! For me, it was great. It was a great honor to step on the stage and play with John.

And a year later you replaced Peter Green in John’s band.

I replaced Peter Green, yeah, when he left. When Peter Green left, John got in touch with me somehow – I really can’t remember how.

Was he in the U.S. at the time?

Who, John? No, he’d never been to America then. It’s interesting, really, because John Mayall didn’t come over to America to tour until probably 1967. I joined John Mayall then, and we used to play in clubs all the time. We’d do six or seven nights a week in clubs all over England. And he had a really big following in England. I think that a couple of months later the Blues Breakers record that Eric Clapton made with John Mayall was released in America, or something like that. Anyway, that was the album that made John Mayall popular with the American audiences, but he’d never actually been there until I joined him.

Did you drop out of school to join Mayall?

Oh, no, no. I left school and took a couple of years not really doing anything much except for playing and I had the occasional job. But I always kind of knew that I’d end up playing with somebody and making a living out of playing music.

I heard that you worked as an engraver for a while.

Yeah, yeah. Which involved carving letters into rubber, which was then printed onto paper and cardboard.

So you were about 17 when you joined Mayall.

Yeah, I’d just turned 17.

Was Crusade the first album you played on?

Yeah, Crusade was the first record, and it was really amazing because it took seven hours to make that record – to make it and to mix it – which freaks people out these days. I mean, I spent a long time on my album too. It’s just incredible how things have changed over the years. I think in those days records were very secondary things, you know. If you were working and you were playing and you were on the road, that’s how you earned your living. And because of that, you’d make a record. If you had a following, people would buy it.

How did you record that first album? Did you rehearse a lot first?

We were just really doing stuff that we were doing onstage every night, so rehearsals weren’t necessary. I think we started about 10:00 or 11:00 in the morning, and it was all finished by about 7:00 in the evening.

What kind of guitar did you use?

I used a Les Paul.

What do you remember of that guitar?

It was made in ’60s, and it was a sunburst Les Paul. It was just a regular Les Paul.

And then you did Bare Wires in 1968.

Bare Wires, yeah, that was the next album. But by the time we did that album, John had changed his band completely. He had a drummer called Jon Hiseman, who was then just a jazz drummer, but since then he’s had his own group called Coliseum. John’s always been into jazz too. I’ve always liked jazz a lot. We both listened to jazz and R&B and blues. I think John kind of wanted a band that was at least capable of stretching out a bit and doing a bit of not jazz music, but jazz-flavored things.

Is that why he had Chris Mercer and Dick Heckstall-Smith on that record?

Yes, that’s right.

That’s the very first blues album I ever bought.

Really? Bare Wires? Great!

I’ll never forget that song you did on there, “I Started Walking.”

Oh, yeah, with the feedback.

It sounded sort of Claptonesque.

Yeah.

Was that intentional, or did you have a parallel development with him?

No, “parallel develop” is great. [Laughs.] I had a parallel development with him, yeah. I was kind of developing at the same time. He developed much quicker than me. He got into blues music earlier than I did.

How did you get the sustain on that song?

I just sat down in front of the speaker, and it started feeding back. I was using a Fender Bassman amp with a Fender speaker, and that was with the Les Paul.

Do you still have that guitar?

I don’t have the same one, no. I have two Les Pauls at the moment, but that particular one was stolen years ago.

You wrote “No Reply” and “Hartley Quits” on that record, right?

Yes, that’s right, yeah.

The song “Sandy”had a very strange slide section in it.

I think John played slide guitar on that, actually. I think the one you’re talking about doesn’t have drums on it, does it?

No. It’s the last song.

That’s the one. I think John did that.

Did you play on “Killing Time”?

Yeah, I played on that.

On some of “Sandy” it sounds like resonator guitar.

I’m just trying to remember what the guitar was that John used. I think it was probably going through a Leslie speaker or something. I remember the track you mean, yeah. I think the guitar he was using was just a guitar he had kind of made up himself. I’m pretty sure he used it through a Leslie speaker, and he used a slide, and that’s that strange kind of eerie sound you’re talking about.

By that album, you already had a very good vibrato.

Yeah.

How did you develop that?

Practice! I used to listen to B.B. King a lot, you know, and he has a great vibrato. I didn’t find this out until years later, but he does it in a different way. He kind of creates vibrato in almost the same way that a classical guitarist does, by kind of moving his hand rather than his finger. The guy that’s influenced me more than anybody, really, is Jimi Hendrix. I think he was great. He was tremendous. And his vibrato was fantastic.

Was the next album Blues From Laurel Canyon?

Well, there was one album between Bare Wires and Lauren Canyon. It was a live album, and it was a double album. What was the title? Anyway, it was recorded on a European tour.

Was that released in the U.S.?

It should have been. I’m trying to remember the title. You should check that out, because there definitely was a live album. Ah, yes – it was called Diary of a Band. So there was that album, and then there was Blues From Laurel Canyon.

You had some fine playing on Blues From Laurel Canyon.

Yeah, that was good band, actually, that band that John had then, with me and Stevie Thompson and Colin Allen. It was a nice, tight, little four-piece band. It was great. Probably the best of my most enjoyable period, for me.

As a guitarist?

Yeah, I think so.

Why is that?

Because by then we were playing in America. I was meeting more and more musicians and buying more and more blues records. You know, it was probably the most enjoyable period. I mean, that was when I was really developing as a guitarist, although in some ways there’s probably less guitar on that album.

Did you play the solo in “Vacation”?

Yeah.

What did you use for that?

A Fender Stratocaster.

Did it have the vibrato arm on it?

Yeah.

What did you run it through?

I was playing it through a Marshall amp – I think it was a 50-watt amp with a 4×12 cabinet.

Did you use that on “Walking on Sunset” too?

Yes. Same guitar, same amp.

How did you get that effect in the beginning of “The Bear”? It sounds like brittle harmonics.

Oh, it is harmonics. It’s just like a cluster of harmonics that all kind of merge into each other because the notes are played very quickly, one after another. They sustain a little bit. It’s just a chord, really, which I played the harmonics of.

Did you run it through an effects device?

No, no effects. Just a bit of reverb.

With Mayall, you used a wah-wah once in a while.

Yeah – on that track you were talking about, “No Reply.”

That was Hendrix-like.

Yeah. Yeah, it was. I was really into him at the time. [Laughs.] In fact, we used to play with him a lot too. I remember one gig very, very clearly. We played with Jimi Hendrix and Albert King at the old Fillmore West in San Francisco.

Did you learn anything from watching Hendrix or talking to him?

Well, yeah, I kind of learned things all the time. He just completely, completely blew my mind. When I saw him onstage, I just thought he was amazing, for a guitarist to have that energy in his playing, and also the control and the rhythm. You know, for most guitarists it’s incredibly difficult to play like that, or to even play anywhere near that standard in a three-piece group. I mean, Eric Clapton did it with Cream. And Hendrix was great, the way he switched from rhythm to leads. His guitar and his voice were almost like the same thing.

Did your using Strats come from knowing him?

No, not really. I’d always liked Fenders. The first blues guitarist that I heard play a Fender was Howlin’ Wolf’s guitarist, Hubert Sumlin. I heard a couple of records of Howlin’ Wolf. One was called “Goin’ Down Slow.” There were several records of Howlin Wolf’s, and then I found out who his guitarist was, and then I found out that he played a Fender Strat.

Was this when you were with Mayall?

Yeah.

Were you in the U.S. when you got your Strat?

Yeah, I was.

I’ve heard a lot of guys say they had trouble buying Fenders in England.

When was this? Was this pre-CBS Fender?

Yeah, pre-CBS.

And they weren’t as good in England?

Mick Ralphs [from Bad Company] was just telling me that you couldn’t find them. He said he searched all over and couldn’t get one until he came to the U.S.

You could find them. They were there. You mean a Fender Strat with a maple neck? They were difficult to find – very difficult to find, for some reason. I don’t know why.

What was it like working with John Mayall?

Oh, it was great. It was six, seven nights a week on the road. The nice thing about it for me was that in those days we had time to kind of get to know a place a bit better. We used to play clubs – over here in the U.S. too – and we’d do residencies. We’d do like five or six nights at the Whisky, and so you’d get to know people a bit better and you’d get to hear other musicians. You’d hang out with other musicians, and you’d be able to play. You’d be able to jam afterwards. And that was the really nice thing about it for me.

Would John give you freedom when it came to your solos?

Oh, yeah. Totally. Within the framework of what he was doing. You’d have complete freedom to do whatever you wanted. You could make as many mistakes as you wanted too. [Laughs.]

Easy guy to work for.

Yeah.

Do you see John these days?

I haven’t seen him for ages. I’d like to try and see him, actually.

You got back together with John in 1970 to play on his Back to the Roots album.

Yeah. He came over to London. It was when Harvey Mandel was playing with him. Yeah, I went down to the studio and did two tracks with him. One was called “Marriage Madness,” and the other track I can’t remember.

You were also on “Mr. Censor Man” and “Force of Nature.”

Yeah.

On “Force of Nature” you were playing with Clapton and Mandel.

I don’t think we were all there at the same time. Eric must have overdubbed his bit later, because I remember playing with Harvey Mandel. But Eric overdubbed his bit later.

.

The Rolling Stones Era

Mick Taylor playing slide guitar at Winterland, 1972. Photo courtesy Wikipedia.

How did your first connection with the Rolling Stones come about?

Through John Mayall. John was a really good friend of theirs – he’d known them for ages. They started off the same way he did, really. They were playing clubs in and around London, and they were playing the same kind of stuff, but a bit more R&B, a bit more rock and roll orientated. He’d known them for years, and he was down at one of their recording sessions when they were working on Let It Bleed. They told him they were looking for a guitarist, because they wanted to go on the road again – they hadn’t done much for a couple of years. And he said, “Well, you can have my guitarist, because he’s just left.” I’d already quit John before I even knew about this.

Did you know what you were going to do?

Well, I was going to get some kind of blues band together, or more of an R&B band, really. I really didn’t know. I had no definite ideas about what I was going to do, except that I wanted to play in a kind of harder R&B band. John had made a decision not to use a drummer for his next band, which didn’t really suit my style at all. Which is why he used an acoustic guitar and a saxophone player. So I quit. So anyway, he told them about me, and they gave me a call. I just went down and played, and it just felt right. It just felt good. They asked me to join there and then.

In the studio?

Yeah.

On Let It Bleed, you played on “Country Honk” and “Live With Me,” right?

“Country Honk,” “Live With Me,” “Honky Tonk Women” – that’s it.

What were your feelings when they asked you to join?

Well, it’s kind of hard to describe, really. I was very honored, very flattered, in a way. But also I really felt that it was the kind of band that suited me at the time. It sounds strange to say “the kind of band that suited me at the time,” but I mean they really were, because I didn’t want to just play 12-bar blues. So it really suited me at the time anyway, and I really felt that with them I could also add a lot to what they were doing.

So in a way, you made a jump from being in a touring band to instant superstardom.

Yeah, but I never felt like that, because I wasn’t responsible for them being that successful. A lot of people have asked me that question, and I did make that jump, but the thing is because they were already so successful, I didn’t relate that success to me. You know what I mean?

Sure. After you joined, you went right out and did a huge gig.

Yeah, Hyde Park. [Here’s a video of the band playing “Sympathy for the Devil” at the event: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzAEtLPSzRg .]

Was that a tribute for Brian Jones?

Yeah, it became that, yeah. I think it had been arranged before that happened [Jones’ death], but that’s what it became.

What kind of guitar were you using when you started with the Stones?

I was using a Les Paul again, and a Fender. Onstage at that particular gig, I was using a Les Paul. I also had a Gibson SG.

Did you use that Les Paul throughout the Stones?

Yeah.

What kind is it?

It’s a 1968 sunburst Les Paul. I don’t remember the amplification – a stack of something. [Laughs.] I think it was Hi-Watt.

Do you still own that Les Paul?

I’ve still got that one, yeah.

Did you have it modified at all?

No, it’s the same. And the interesting thing about that one, that guitar, is that I bought that guitar from Keith Richards two years before. I’ve got an idea why he wanted to sell it, but I remember going down to the studio. It’s interesting, because I don’t remember actually meeting him then, but I met Ian Stewart, their roadie who also plays piano. I met him, and I told him I was looking for a Les Paul, because the other one had been stolen. And he said, “Well, we’ve got one for sale. Come down to the studio and have a look at it.” I think it was when the Stones were making Beggars Banquet. It was funny – when I met Keith a couple of years later, I turned up with the same guitar that he’d had.

Was it a stock guitar?

Yeah. Oh, now wait a minute. It had a Bigsby arm on it, which I took off.

What about the pickups?

The pickups were the humbucking pickups, and I still have the same ones.

Who had the Gibson ES-345 around then?

I had one – the brown one. Keith and I both had one each. I used that on Sticky Fingers, actually, quite a bit.

You joined the Stones in June, and then in October you went to Los Angeles to start a tour.

That’s right, yeah.

How did that tour compare to working with John Mayall?

Oh, it was completely different. I mean, we were still getting up onstage and doing a gig, but everything else about it was totally different. It was thousand times more people.

How did you and Keith Richards work out your parts?

We never really consciously worked them out. They just kind of happened. He played most of the riffs in the songs, and I played most of the solos.

Is this the way it happened from the beginning?

Yeah.

For years, people have been arguing about who soloed on the Chuck Berry songs “Carol” and “Little Queenie” on Get Your Ya-Ya’s Out.

Keith plays the solos.

On both?

Mmm . . . I really should be able to remember all these things. [Laughs.] I’m pretty sure he does, yeah. “Little Queenie” and “Carol”? I think on “Carol,” I played the solo.

The “Street Fighting Man” solo [on Get Your Ya-Ya’s Out] was yours, right?

Oh, yeah, yeah.

Keith has said that you made the song “Honky Tonk Women” what it became.

Well, I definitely added something to it, but it was more or less complete by the time I arrived and did my overdubs.

Was it your idea to electrify it?

No, they’d already laid the backing track down, but it was very rough and it wasn’t complete. I added some guitars to it. But I didn’t play the riff that starts “Honky Tonk Women” – that’s Keith playing. I played the sort of country-influenced rock licks between the verses.

Back when it was called “Country Honk,” on Let It Bleed, did you come in and play the bottleneck part?

Yeah. It wasn’t on a regular guitar, though. It was on a cheap little Selmer Hawaiian guitar, which I played on my lap.

Did you use that guitar with Mayall?

Yeah, I did, actually. I used it on a track called “2401” on Blues From Laurel Canyon. I used it on the solo for that.

Where did you find that guitar?

In London. It cost about twenty pounds – about $40. I wish I still had it! [Laughs.]

Did you use it in an open tuning?

No, I used it in a regular tuning, actually.

On that “2401,” did you play the really heavy rhythm part?

Yeah. And that’s on a Fender Stratocaster.

Did you record Sticky Finger after the Stones’ U.S. tour?

Yeah. I like that album. It’s one of my favorite Stones albums. It’s got a looseness and spontaneity about it that I like. There’s a track called “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” with a long solo – that just happened by accident. I mean, that was never planned. At the very end of the song, I just felt like carrying on, playing, and everybody was kind of putting their instruments down. But the tape was still rolling and it sounded good, so everybody quickly picked up their instruments again and carried on playing. And it’s just a one-take thing.

Who played the rhythm parts?

Keith and I both played rhythm parts, but I did the solo too.

Who played the fuzzed-out part in the beginning of the song?

That’s Keith playing that.

I think “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” is one of the best tracks on the album.

Yeah. It’s one of my favorites too. A lot of other people seem to really like that too.

It showed the Stones in a different light.

Yeah. It had been a long time since they had done anything as loose as that – probably since “Going Home,” that long instrumental jam that they did on one of their albums, called Aftermath.

What guitars did you use on Sticky Fingers?

On Sticky Fingers I used the 345, the brown Gibson you were talking about, for the solo on “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.” On “Sway” I used the Les Paul.

What about “Wild Horses”?

On “Wild Horses” I played acoustic guitar in what they call a Nashville tuning, which is tuned in exactly the same way, but you use all 1st and 2nd strings [high E and B strings], and you tune them in octaves [i.e., you tune them up an octave]. So you’re really playing in the same tuning – it’s kind of like playing a 12-string guitar without the other six strings. That’s the best way to describe it. This was on one of Keith’s Gibson acoustic guitars.

Who plays the electric solo?

On “Wild Horses”? Keith.

I assume you played the blues solo in “Sway.”

Oh, yeah. Keith doesn’t play on that track. Mick’s playing rhythm guitar on that track.

So you did the slide and the solo.

Uh-huh. But it’s both the same. I mean, I had put the slide on my little finger, so that still leaves the other three fingers free to play like you would regularly, so I could switch from one to the other. And that was played in regular tuning.

What about “You Gotta Move”?

I used a Fender Telecaster.

For the slide part?

Yeah.

Was there a National guitar in there?

Keith’s, yeah. He used a National guitar.

Was it steel or wooden?

He had two of them. One of them was totally steel, and the other one was a really great, beautiful guitar that he got in Brazil. It was like a National guitar, but it was made of wood and metal. I’m not sure whether he used that one or the other one, but he did use a National guitar.

And it sounds like someone played a 12-string.

Yeah. I think I played that.

Who did the leads in “Bitch”?

I did that.

How did Ry Cooder happen to come in on that session?

Oh, well, he was already in London with Jack Nitzsche, who produced that film Mick was in, Performance. There’s a lot of Ry Cooder on that, so he was around at the time and he played slide guitar on “Sister Morphine,” which is killer. It’s great. I think that’s where Keith learned the guitar tunings on “Honky Tonk Women.” It’s open-G tuning. You take the top E string down to a D, and you take the A string down to a G, and you take the bottom E string down to a D.

On “Dead Flowers” you create sort of a pedal steel effect.

Do I? I never used . . . I did that on the same guitar that I used for “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.”

It’s really country-sounding.

Yeah. It’s cleaner-sounding. It’s got a more brittle sound to it.

Mick, do you have favorite solos that you did with the Stones?

Oh, yeah. Well, there’s the one on “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.” The best one – for a guitar solo, anyway – is “Time Waits for No One.”

You ended your new album with a quote from that.

Oh, yeah! You noticed that?

Oh, sure. It’s such a beautiful touch.

It comes in at the end. I was listening to it one night in the studio. I was just getting ready to mix it, and I thought, “Hmm.” Because at the very end it’s got the same chord sequence, almost. I thought, “I’ve got to play that. It’d be good to put that in there.”

That was a climactic solo you took in “Time Waits for No One.”

Yeah. Yeah, it really did happen. It was really different.

How did you record your parts with the Stones?

Most of the solos are overdubbed. They’re usually all first or second takes.

What would they lay down first?

It would depend on the song, of course, but we’d usually lay down as much of it live as we could. We’d just play, you know. Keith would play rhythm and I’d play the lead parts, or we’d both play rhythm. And that’s how they were done. The vocals were added later, but there would always be a rough guide vocal there.

It seems like the Stones had a sound on record like nobody else.

Yeah.

How did they achieve that?

They’d master things really, really hot. We never used to play incredibly loud in the studio. We used to use small amps. Most of the time, we used to use Fender Twin Reverbs. We never used big amps in the studio. There’s a certain kind of tape echo they used a lot when Jimmy Miller was producing records for them.

Tape echo?

Yeah, as opposed to plate echo. You know, it would be like a Revox echo. That’s the kind of echo that’s on the guitar intro from “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” and a couple of other things. If you listen, you can hear it – it’s a very fast tape echo, a very fast delay.

They’d put the bass and the drums more up front.

Yeah.

Sometimes Jagger’s vocals are almost buried.

Yeah, right. I don’t know why. They never deliberately mixed down their vocals. I think it was because the accent was more on heavy bass drum, heavy bass, you know.

What did you like on Exile on Main Street?

Oh, there’s quite a lot on that album. Whooh. I like “Shine a Light.” That’s one of my favorite tracks on that album.

Did you play bass on that?

Yeah. I played bass. There’s quite a few things I played bass on – that’s one of them. “Torn and Frayed.”

How did it come about that you played the bass?

Because Bill wasn’t there – he was late. [Laughs.] And nobody could be bothered to wait. That used to happen a lot, actually. I don’t mean that Bill was late a lot, but we never always used to get there at the same time. Sometimes if we felt like playing, we would. And that’s why on that track “Sway” that you were talking about earlier on, the backing track was done with just Charlie, Mick, and me.

Did you play slide on “Stop Breaking Down”?

Yeah.

And “Soul Survivor”?

Yeah.

Who does the sort of fuzzed solo?

On “Soul Survivor”? Keith.

Exile-era Rolling Stones

Were you using the same guitars on Exile?

More or less, yeah. I was also using the Gibson SG, but I can’t remember what I used it on. There’s always been three guitars, really, that I’ve used more than anything else. And that’s the Les Paul, the Strat, and for slide I use the Telecaster a lot.

What year is the Tele?

It was a really early one. When I was in France with the Stones, we had this big robbery, this burglary, and a load of guitars were stolen one weekend when we weren’t recording. You know what it’s like with old guitars – it’s really difficult to replace them. I have managed to find another Telecaster, which is a 1954 Telecaster, which is great. But there were a couple of other guitars there that were really nice. The Rickenbacker guitar that was black with gold pickups, a 6-string Rickenbacker, double-cutaway. I’d never, ever seen one like it before or since. If you know anybody that’s got one, I’d be interested! If you know anybody that got some early Fender Strats that are in good condition, I’d be interested too. And also a Gibson SG, because I don’t have that any more either. At the moment, I’m still using basically the same guitars, but I’ve also got a Gibson Firebird, which is really lovely.

Is that the Firebird VII pictured on the inside liner of your album?

Yeah, that’s the one. I use it on “Spanish,” for the first part. For the second part, that long solo, I use the Les Paul.

Did you record “Spanish” with a lot of compression?

On the guitar? Yeah. And also with a phaser too. It wasn’t an MXR phaser, it wasn’t a pedal – it was a sort of digital delay/harmonizer thing that I set up in the studio.

It almost sounds like an EBow.

Yeah.

I’d like to finish up the stuff with the Stones.

Right.

What about Goat’s Head Soup?

Goat’s Head Soup is not one of my favorite albums, but there’s a lot of interesting things on it. I think it’s a weak album – it’s a bit directionless. I think we all felt that way too.

Did you play on “Angie”?

Yeah, I played on “Angie.” I played the acoustic guitar.

Was that mainly you?

Yeah.

Do you have parts on the album that you do like?

Oh, yeah. I like the blues tune, “Hide Your Love.” I like – God, it’s really difficult to remember all this. What’s the track with the wah-wah guitar solo at the end? I like that track. I played quite a bit of bass on the album too. I played bass on “Dancing With Mr. D.” I played bass on “Tumbling Dice.” I played bass on that song “Coming Down Again.” I played bass on “Can You Hear the Music” too.

Was this because Bill wasn’t in the studio?

Yeah. He actually played synthesizer on some of the tracks.

Your last Stones album was It’s Only Rock and Roll?

Yeah, that was the last one.

Did you play the watery-sounding lead on “If You Really Want to Be My Friend”?

You mean the solo? Yeah. I don’t like it. There was just like a space there for a guitar solo, and they asked me to play a guitar solo, so I did.

By this time you’d made up your mind to leave?

I was getting a bit fed up.

Why was that?

I wanted to broaden my scope as a guitarist and do something else.

You were getting tired of the rock?

No, I wasn’t getting tired of rock and roll, but after five years it was becoming a bit too regimented, a bit too predictable.

Were you more or less allocated to the position of lead guitarist?

Yeah. Yeah. In fact, that’s all I was. I mean, I wasn’t really composing songs or writing at that time. I was just beginning to write things and that influenced my decision, obviously.

And you couldn’t get your material on record?

Oh, no. I hadn’t really written very much material then. But I knew that if I did write any songs, they wouldn’t be used. But I never expected them to be anyway, because Mick and Keith have always written most of the material for the Rolling Stones. I mean, they are the Rolling Stones, you know? They are the identity of the Rolling Stones, really, because of the songs they write.

Did you feel like a full-fledge member?

Oh, I was. Yeah, I always felt like that.

Were they good about taking your input?

Yeah! When it came to suggesting ideas and contributing things, it was fine. There was plenty of scope for everybody to suggest things and try things a different way. Sometimes Bill would say, “Well, let’s try it this way,” or sometimes I’d say, “Let’s try it another way.” It was very loose.

Did the musicians hang out as friends, or was it more of a working relationship?

It was more of a working relationship by the time I left. When we were living in England, we used to hang out as a band, more or less. But the more touring we did and the more traveling around we did, the less we saw of each other.

On record, they’ve never seemed to recapture the magic they had when you were in the band.

Well, yeah, maybe you’re right. It’s difficult for me to say because I was so involved in it. I like Black and Blue – I like some of that – and I think Some Girls is a good record to party to. It’s not one of my favorite Stones albums, because some of the other ones have been so much better.

Most critics agree that their best period was from Let It Bleed until Exile.

Yeah, I think it was a very good period too.

There was a lot of innovation and growth in the band.

Exactly, and a lot of energy too. And it all seemed to be going somewhere. And it was when I felt that it wasn’t going somewhere that I left it.

What’s the hardest aspect of being in a great rock and roll band?

The hardest thing about being with a band like that? [Long pause.] Putting up with all the crazy people that actually surround them. Because they’re great, but a lot of the other people that were hanging around weren’t so great.

After a while did you feel that your artistic creativity . . .

Was stifled. Yeah, I did. You have to remember that I was a bit younger than everybody else, and when I joined them, as I said earlier on, they’d been successful for a long time. There were some people that can just ride along the crest, on somebody else’s success. And there are some people that that’s not enough. It wasn’t really enough for me.

When did you make up your mind to leave?

After we’d made It’s Only Rock and Roll. Well, not immediately after, but it was the same year – towards the end of 1974. I was working on Ronnie Wood’s very first solo album at the time – in fact, we all were – and I think that’s how they met Ronnie, actually. I’ve known Ronnie since I was 16. We’re old friends from a long time ago, but they met Ronnie about six months before I left, I guess. At that time he was living in London, and he had a studio in the basement of his house. We’d go down there and play sometimes, and we ended up helping him out a bit on his first solo album.

Did you like It’s Only Rock and Roll?

Yeah, I liked some of it. I liked my guitar solo on “Time Waits for No One” [laughs]. I liked that track “It’s Only Rock and Roll” too.

Are you playing the lead in the middle section of that song?

No, Keith’s playing that.

Do you play on “Short and Curlies”?

That’s the shuffle, right?

It starts out with a slide, almost like a Dixieland type sound.

Yeah, I am playing on that.

“Fingerprint File” was another good one.

“Fingerprint File” I played bass on. That’s another track that was done with just Charlie, Mick, and myself, and Keith overdubbed later. Mick played rhythm guitar, I played bass, and Charlie was playing drums.

In retrospect, what do you think of your decision to quit the Rolling Stones? Did it come at the right time?

Oh, yeah! Absolutely. I’ve got no regrets at all.

The Solo Album

After the Stones, you went with Jack Bruce and Carla Bley for a while.

Yeah. Right. That was really different [laughs]. I mean, totally different. I never thought it was going to be that different. I had very high hopes and expectations of me and Jack Bruce being able to do something together, but it didn’t really work out. We just got a band together very quickly and went on the road and played Jack’s songs. And it didn’t happen.

That must have been around 1975.

Yeah. After that, I didn’t do anything for quite a while. When I say “I didn’t do anything,” I mean I did the odd session now and again, but I didn’t really feel like joining another band or getting involved in anything big, you know. I really felt I had to find my own feet, musically, kind of figure out what I wanted to do next. So I stayed home and played the piano. And that’s really when I started to write songs – when I started to play the piano.

Where were you living then?

I was living in the country in Sussex.

Is that when you started putting together some of the songs on your new solo album?

Not really, no. But that’s when I started writing songs – mostly instrumentals.

Had you played piano before then?

A little bit, but not very much. I used to play piano in the studio with the Stones sometimes.

How did your solo album come about?

As soon as I had enough material together – or almost enough, anyway – I decided to go in and do an album. I found some of the musicians that are playing on it, contacted them through friends, and it just kind of happened that way.

Your new album is wonderful.

You like it?

It’s really a nice comeback album after a long wait.

It’s quite a low-key, low-profile affair, really. I didn’t use any superstars. I didn’t use any big names.

This might have been to your advantage.

Oh, I think it is, because that’s the trap that’s some people can fall into, you know. I just didn’t feel it was the right way for me to make an album, because when I started the album it was going to be an instrumental album anyway, and I just wanted to do it with musicians that were so good that I didn’t have to tell them what to play. You know what I mean?

Yes. Didn’t you use some people who used to be in Gong?

Only the drummer, Pierre Moerlen.

What’s your method of composing?

I don’t really have a method. Quite a lot of the stuff on my album was written very quickly. It just kind of came out. It surprised me. It just seemed to come out of the blue.

Do you get the words first, or the music?

Usually the music. Sometimes both at the same time.

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Were you playing or practicing every day?

I used to practice the piano a lot. I mean, not serious – I never really took it seriously. I never studied it, but I think it was because I wasn’t working with other musicians. So I found it kind of good to just sit down and play the piano, because it is a nice instrument to play on your own. So is the guitar. But I find I get more satisfaction when I’m playing the guitar if I’m playing with other people.

What guitars did you use on your solo album?

Whoo. A hell of a lot.

Let’s start with “Alabama.”

Okay. “Alabama” I used a Martin acoustic – I’m trying to remember the model number – a D-25, D-35?

D-28?

That’s right. It was a Martin D-28, and I did that track completely live – the singing and the acoustic was live. First take. I hadn’t planned to do that song at all. In fact, it wasn’t even a song. Everybody else had gone home, except for the engineer. I was just sitting in the studio on my own, and this blues tune, this riff, came into my head. And I remembered some words that a friend of mine had written and just started to sing it. The slide guitar playing was overdubbed later, and that was done on the Telecaster.

Do you have the action raised on the Tele for playing slide?

Yes, I did. It’s not too high, because it was still possible to play a regular tuning. But if I’m going to use a guitar specifically for slide playing, I raise the action on it a bit, and I usually put really heavy-gauge strings on too.

Do you put a different bridge or saddle on it?

No. I simply raise the strings. First of all, I put the heaviest-gauge set of strings on, and then I just raise the bridge.

Do you use a glass or metal slide?

Metal. The best slide that I’ve got is one that Lowell George gave me. It’s part of a spanner [socket wrench]. It’s really heavy. And to use it, you have to use a guitar with heavy-gauge strings, and with the strings quite a ways off the neck, because otherwise it’s so heavy that it flattens the strings.

How long is the slide?

It’s about four inches long. Let’s see – I have it here. It’s three to four inches long.

So you use a spark-plug wrench.

That’s what it is, actually. It’s very heavy. I’ve got another one that’s the same length, and that’s metal, but that’s a bit lighter.

Do you normally play your slide parts in open tunings?

Well, I do on “Alabama.” I play it in an open-E tuning. You just tune the guitar so that when you play an open chord, it’s an E chord.

Do you typically play slide standing up or while sitting down?

Both. I find I can play easier when I’m sitting down. I have more control over it.

Do you ever play it like a lap steel?

No. I don’t have it in my lap. I don’t play it in my lap. I play it the way I’d play regular guitar.

On which finger do you wear the slide?

On my little finger.

Always?

Yeah.

Do you damp with your other fingers?

Yeah, that’s why I use the little finger, really, because I find I can control it better. I can control the vibrato and everything much better.

How do you get such sustain out of your slide playing?

[Long pause.] Well, a Telecaster has got a very hard, very brittle sound, but for some reason, when you use it for slide, it kind of sustains more. I think most guitars do, actually, but the Telecaster in particular. It’s not a guitar that’s really noted for its qualities of sustain, but when you use a Telecaster for slide playing, it seems to sustain more. I always sit fairly close to the amplifier, or stand fairly close to the amplifier, and that helps.

What kind of amps do you use?

In the studio, I used all sorts of things. I used a Roland amp. I used a Boogie amp. Most of the time I used an Ampeg VT-40, which I thought was a great little amp. I don’t think they make them anymore. Or if they do, they’re not the same, because I got some new Ampeg equipment quite a while ago, and it wasn’t as good as the old stuff.

What kind of sound did the Ampeg give you compared to the other amps?

It was that old valve-amp sound. You know what I mean? A very kind of rich, full sound without cranking it up all the way.

Did you use it on “Giddy-Up”?

Yes.

What did you use for “Slow Blues”?

There’s two guitars on that. For the most part, it’s Gibson Les Paul, which was actually done live with the band, but then at the very end a Fender Stratocaster comes in. About the last minute of it is a Fender Strat. And there’s one bit at the very end, just before it fades out, where there’s an amazing thing that happened by accident. This sort of feedback thing, and I use the tremolo arm. It sounds almost like a harmonica.

What’s on “Giddy-Up”?

The Les Paul.

How did you get so fat of a sound? It almost sounds double but probably wasn’t.

No, it wasn’t doubled. I didn’t use any effects pedals, either. You mean the intro or the whole thing?

The opening.

It’s just a very, very tight delay – echo. See, you don’t really hear it echo, but it makes the guitar pop out. It’s just a tape delay, studio. There’s no effects pedals on that. On the slow section of “Giddy-Up,” at the end, I use a Fender Stratocaster because I’m bending the notes and using the tremolo arm to bend the notes too. I’ve always liked that. I’ve always admired saxophones players. I’m very heavily influenced by saxophone players.

Which ones?

Eddie Harris, John Coltrane, lots of saxophone players.

Does this go back a long ways?

Yeah, yeah. I’d really like to play the guitar like a saxophone player plays a saxophone. To have sort of fluidity, that slow fluidity. That’s why I like using the tremolo arm a lot, because you can get that sort of effect by using the tremolo arm. The thing I’m finding is that if you’re going to use the tremolo arm a lot, you really need to have some kind of special tremolo unit built for you or made, because the guitars go out of tune so much, even a Fender.

Do you have a special system for tremolo?

No, I don’t. I’m looking for one.

Do you have trouble keeping your Strats in tune?

Oh, it’s terrible. It’s really bad. I’ve played other Fenders that haven’t been so bad, but they all seem to do it if you use the tremolo arm a lot.

I’ve got to turn you on to something.

You know somebody who’s built something?

Yeah. There’s a guy going around who imitates Jimi Hendrix. His name is Randy Hansen.

Oh, I’ve heard of him.

He knows someone up in Seattle, Floyd Rose, who’s invented a system for a Strat that locks the strings at the bridge and the nut. Randy says that this system allows you to use the arm to take the strings up three steps, go totally limp, beat on ’em with your pick, snap it back, and it will be in tune.

And you can still get a fast vibrato too?

Yes. Eddie Van Halen and Roger Fischer of Heart have those Floyd Rose systems too.

Oh, well, that’s just what I’m looking for, I think. Have you got his phone number? [I give Mick the number.] Is he into guitar mechanics and building guitars too?

Yes.

Great. That’s perfect. I’m going to Seattle next week. I’ll look him up, because I’ve got my Fender with me too, so he could maybe have a look at it. That’s great.

I’ve heard that Floyd approached Fender a couple of years ago, but they weren’t interested.

Well, they should be. The Fender Stratocaster is such a beautiful guitar to play. There’s a sort of mechanical quality about Fender that I like. It’s just a very solid little guitar, you know.

What kinds of Stratocasters do you own?

The sunburst one that I have is a ’58. That’s on the cover of the new album. I just bought a new Fender Stratocaster, actually. It’s a ’65. It’s a nice one. It’s baby blue. I’ve never ever seen one like it before. It’s like a very pale blue.

Paul Rodgers has a Strat that looks like that.

Yeah. Actually, it’s very similar to that one. I got it from a guy that lives in Los Angeles. He sort of buys and sells guitars. I believe that he’s supplied Jeff Beck with a couple of guitars – there’s a white Fender Stratocaster that Jeff Beck uses that he got from him.

Did you have the ’58 while you were with the Stones?

I didn’t actually have that one, no. I had another one like it, which was stolen, also a sunburst with a maple neck.

What kind of fingerboards do you like on them?

The one I have has a maple neck. But I really don’t mind what kind. I like fairly wide necks. I’m thinking of having some guitars made that have wider necks for more space between each string.

How do you set the action on your Stratocaster?

Fairly high. I never use strings that are too light, either, because you just don’t get as much power with light-gauge strings. You really don’t.

What gauge do you go for?

I usually start off with a .010 or an .011 on the [high] E string, and then kind of work up from there.

To about a .046?

Yeah.

Do you have any particular brands?

I use the Gibson strings, and Fender.

Do you do modifications to your guitars?

So far, I haven’t had any done. I’d like to. There’s a few things I would like to do, but they’re just really simple mechanics. I’d like to have a power booster built into the guitar. I’m gonna check out a few different kinds of pickups too. But what I am really looking for is some new guitars – not new “new” guitars, but new old guitars.

Do you prefer old to new instruments?

I don’t really know. It’s kind of difficult to make comparisons because obviously certain old guitars had something really special about them. Quite honestly, I haven’t really tried out very many new guitars, because I’m satisfied with the ones I have. But as I said before, I did have this robbery and lost quite a few guitars which I haven’t really been able to replace.

What do you look for in a guitar?

It’s a certain kind of feel about it. I can tell if I’m going to like an electric guitar even before it’s plugged in. As far as the feel of it goes, I can tell.

Is it the weight of it, the distribution, the action . . .

Yeah, it’s a combination of all those things. It’s really the way the neck feels.

So you can tell right away if you’ll get along with the guitar.

Yeah. I can now. I can tell.

How many guitars do you own?

I have about ten.

Any acoustics besides the Martin?

Yeah, I have an Ovation, and also a Guild guitar, which is lovely. It’s a very small-bodied Guild acoustic guitar. It was given to me years ago.

What about electrics?

Electric guitars, I’ve got the Telecasters, the Fender Stratocasters, the two Gibson Les Pauls, the Gibson Firebird.

Do you have any special-made instruments?

No. There’s a guitar maker in Austin, Texas, called Ted Newman, who’s gonna make me some.

What kind of picks do you use?

Very heavy Fender picks.

What part of the pick do you attack the strings with?

With the tip.

How do you hold it?

Thumb, forefinger. And sometimes I just play with my thumb.

Do you anchor any part of your picking hand on the face of the guitar?

Yeah, I just kind of let it fall across the strings.

So your hand’s loose.

It’s very loose.

And when you’re playing slide do you do the same?

No. I anchor my hand much more, because I need more control.

How do you see your playing as evolving?

Um, how do you see it? [Laughs.]

“Giddy-Up,” “Spanish,” and “A Minor” are beyond anything I’ve heard you play before.

Yeah, it is beyond anything I’ve ever played before. It’s kind of jazz flavored and jazz orientated without actually being jazz. I couldn’t change my style into the style of a jazz guitarist because it requires a different technique and a different knowledge. So what I’m trying to, I think, is play the style that I’ve always played in, but kind of expand musically and harmonically. But without changing my basic style, which is blues orientated.

That comes through on the new album. It has such a mixture on it.

Yeah, I know. Yeah, it did [laughs].

That’s one of its strongest points.

Yeah?

It’s a tour-de-force.

Yeah, it’s different. It’s not a hard rock and roll album, but it’s different.

It runs the gamut from “Leather Jacket” to “A Minor.”

Yeah, I know! When you think about it that way, it is quite a tour-de-force. From “Leather Jacket” to “A Minor” is like – I don’t know.

When your record came into the Guitar Player office, everyone stopped to listen to it.

Was the record okay? Is the record fairly good quality?

Yeah.

Good. I’m just checking. I like to check because these days you get some records in shops, and they’re just terrible.

The press them so quickly.

It’s not just that. The plastic they use is recycled plastic. You must have noticed over the years how the records have gotten thinner, and it’s really bad.

I wonder if they wear out more quickly.

Oh, they do. They do. I mean, I’ve got my old records, and they really feel solid. They feel as if they’re going to last for a long time, and that you’re going to be able to have them in your collection for the rest of your life. But these new ones, the best thing to do is to make a cassette copy immediately.

Like we used to do with bootlegs.

Right.

What do you plan to be doing now?

Well, I’m gonna do a tour in September with basically the same musicians that play on the album. As far as the stage thing goes, I want to concentrate on the guitar playing on instrumentally orientated stuff. And I’ll do some songs too. But I really want to take things like “Spanish” and “Giddy-Up” a step further onstage. I think they just naturally will be.

Is this the first record you’ve sung on?

Not the first record I’ve sung on, but the first record I’ve sung lead vocals on, yeah.

“Leather Jacket” should get airplay.

I think that might be a single. But on the other hand, people really have to treat it as an album, because it’s an album of music. “Leather Jacket” is not representational in itself of that entire album. I don’t really think with one track that you could say, “This has the essential qualities of the rest of it.”

Was the album long in the making?

It did take nearly 18 months, but I wasn’t working continuously. The thing that took a long time was producing it and writing it and recording it, all at the same time. So I tended to do one track at a time. The very, very first track that I recorded was “A Minor,” but it wasn’t even intended. At that time, I just happened to have some studio time at a friend’s studio, and I did that track. But that was even before I’d decided to do a solo album.

You’re credited with playing a lot of instruments on the album.

Yeah, I play a string machine on “Spanish” and “A Minor.” I play the electric piano on “A Minor.” There are a few tracks where I play nearly everything except for the drums.

Do you have enough songs for another album?

I do have enough material, but not enough material that I really like.

That’s an advantage to being your own producer – you have the control.

Yeah. I think that’s very important, especially with an album where you’re trying to express all the different things you can do and your influences. I think it’s important to have that kind of control.

Looking forward to going back on the road?

I am, actually. Making this album, for me, has been a way of finding out what I can do in order to go on the road with the right band. Because so many people get a band together to go on the road, and then they find out that it’s not the right combination, you know? So they break up. A lot of hard work and a lot of effort has gone into this.

But it seems like a labor of love.

Well, it’s just something I had to do. I really had to do this, you know. I had to.

What are some of the albums you’ve contributed to as a studio guitarist?

There’s two Gong albums. I played on the first track of side one of Expresso II, “Heavy Tune.” There’s also another Gong album that was the album after that – I can’t remember what the title was [Downwind], but anyway I’m playing on a couple of tracks on that. There’s the Herbie Mann London Underground, but also when I was doing those sessions for Herbie Mann, we ended up doing a couple of very rough jams on some Jamaican kind of reggae things, and much to my surprise, a couple of years later I remember seeing this album by Herbie Mann on Atlantic – I think it was kind of a jazz-based reggae album. I can’t remember the title of it [Reggae], so I would be playing on a couple of tracks on that one too. There’s Ron Wood’s first solo album [I’ve Got My Own Album to Do] – I played a lot on that.

What else? Oh, yes. The soundtrack for the David Bowie movie, The Man Who Fell to Earth – I did some of the music for that. A long, long time ago when I was with John Mayall, I did some sessions with an old blues piano player called Sunnyland Slim. I did a session with him in Los Angeles. I can’t remember the title of the album – if you wanted to find out, John Mayall would know about it because I did it with him. [These October 1968 tracks were issued on the World Pacific release Slim’s Got His Thing Goin’ On.] I also did some session work for a guy called Champion Jack Dupree, and that ended up on an album [Dupree’s Scooby Dooby Doo, recorded in London in February 1969 and released by Blue Horizon].

There’s a few other things too. I’m trying to remember them. I did some sessions once with Harry Nilsson, but whether that was ever used on an album, I’m not sure. I played on the live version of Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells” [The Orchestral Tubular Bell album]. I don’t know whether it was released over here, but it was released as an album in England. It was a recording of the first live performance of “Tubular Bells,” at the Queen Elizabeth Hall in London. I played some of the guitar parts, and Steve Hillage played some of the others. That’s about all I can remember right now.

Do you have any advice for young players?

Yeah. I’d just tell them to forget all about making it overnight and being successful, and just really get into music so it makes them develop. If they’ve got time to develop, and if they’re really successful, that’s great. But it’s important to have the time to develop and the time to listen to other people and listen to music is most important when you’re young and just starting out.

Is it important to learn to read music?

Well, I think it’s great if you can combine the both. If you can combine both things, it’s ideal, if you can actually learn to read music as you’re learning to play. I don’t read music. Because I’ve been playing all these years, it’s much more difficult for to sit down and learn to read music than it is for somebody who’d only just beginning on the guitar. You know what I mean? Ideally I think it’s great if you can combine both. But really, it all comes down to your own imagination and what you’re able to do and what you’re able to express. And more than that, it’s how deeply you’ve absorbed various kinds of things, other kinds of music.

Any tips for playing slide?

Yeah. Listen to Elmore James! And Lowell George, because Lowell George is a great slide player. And also it’s good to forget about the regular bottleneck tunings sometimes and just put on a slide and see what you can do with a slide in regular tuning, and switch from one to the other. Because as soon as you put the guitar in an open tuning, you’re limiting yourself. But if you can just leave the guitar as it is, in regular tuning, and put on a slide, you can discover all sorts of things and get away from the regular kind of bottleneck clichés.

One last question, Mick. What do you like to do when you’re not playing music?

I play tennis. But it’s been so long. There’s not much else I do, actually. Soccer, I play – if I can find another 21 people to play it with!

Thanks a million for the interview.

Thanks to you too. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.

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Links to the interviews with Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Ronnie Wood, and Ry Cooder:

http://jasobrecht.com/keith-richards-1994-interview-songwriting-creativity-rolling-stones/

http://jasobrecht.com/the-rolling-stones-charlie-watts-interview/

http://jasobrecht.com/ronnie-wood-interview-slide-guitar-faces-rolling-stones/

http://jasobrecht.com/ry-cooder-%e2%80%93-talking-country-blues-and-gospel/

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If you didn’t read this at http://jasobrecht.com , it’s been bootlegged! © 2011 Jas Obrecht. All rights reserved. This article may not be reprinted without author’s written permission.