I jumped at the chance to join the committee that hired the music at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, New York. We brought in great players, some very early in their careers. We hired Miles Davis’ rhythm section and had them play in the acoustically challenged gym. Imagine Ron Carter, his double bass lines booming off the unforgiving ceiling, ricocheting down to the hardwood floor and into every pocket of space in that building. The drummer was the seventeen-year-old prodigy, Tony Williams. I can still see him flirting and fencing with his cymbals. Pianist, Herbie Hancock, only 23 and fresh from his breakthrough, “Watermelon Man”; he raised the roof. We also brought in Blind Reverend Gary Davis, the Harlem street preacher whose finger picking was inspired. His passionate delivery of “If I Had My Way” still rings. A percussion troupe from a down river continuation school came up a couple times. Dave Van Ronk, The Holy Modal Rounders, Doc Watson, and Big Joe Williams all came through.
Big Joe arrived in a dusty old DeSoto with Missouri plates. He and his driver, Short Stuff John Macon, put on their show in the newly built Sottery Hall and, being a fledgling harmonica player, I imposed myself and got to play with them. Big Joe was patient and accommodating and took me under his wing, even urging me to quit college to join him on the road. It was 1963 and I was clueless about what these two black bluesmen from the deep South were dealing with in those Jim Crow years. Big Joe’s address was Crawford, Mississippi, I never did find out why he had Missouri plates. I also had no idea what I represented to them…a white college kid in a liberal arts sanctuary lost in the woods of the Hudson Valley. I know now I could never have handled what the road had in store had I said yes to Joe’s invitation.
He came to Bard twice during my tenure. The second time we jammed on the lawn, in the dorm, and he came to the Magdal Inn out on Route 9G to sit in with my band, The Disciples. A couple years later, I was in L.A. when he played the famous Ash Grove on Melrose Avenue. We had dinner at my apartment. My adoring sister, Kim, cooked for him. After dinner, Big Joe smoked a cigar. Kim kept that stub in a plastic bag for years. As we prepared to drive to The Ash Grove, Joe studied my Rambler Classic and noticed I had a low tire. He had learned to be good at anticipating problems. In business, though, my guess is that he never earned the true value of his catalogue, his record sales, and his songs. He couldn’t read or write. He autographed his album cover for me with a simple “X.” He was just getting by.
At the Ash Grove, Joe had me sit in. Some of the customers were dressed to the nines. They thought Joe Williams, the famous jazz singer, was the attraction. Mississippi Big Joe Williams with his back country blues was a long way from the smooth jazz styling of the other Joe Williams. A portion of the audience didn’t stay long. I didn’t last long either. I still had a lot to learn about accompaniment. After four songs, The Ash Grove management discretely asked me to let Joe finish the set by himself. I was learning, but I was learning slow. The next week I drove Joe to the studio to make a record. A bass player and drummer were set up. I was Joe’s driver and harp player. I learned later that the great bluesman Charlie Musselwhite had played that role before me. I was no Charlie Musselwhite, I was still a beginner. Big Joe invented a distinctive sound. He played a 9-string guitar, often acoustically, but when he played through an amplifier, he got a metallic rattle undertone by nailing a pie pan to the facing. Who does that? Joe got $1,400 in cash for the session and signed off on his rights with his “X.” I was there, just for the thrill of it, another white boy lost in the blues.
That day, in about 1970, was the last time I saw Joe. I don’t know if that album ever came out. It may be buried in the vaults somewhere. Big Joe wrote dozens of songs, among them, “Baby Please Don’t Go,” which was covered by Muddy Waters and several rock artists, most notably, by Them, featuring Van Morrison (flip side of “Gloria”). Publishing is a gold mine but only a handful of those early blues and doo wop artists got in on it. Willie Dixon was one of the few bluesmen who managed to parlay his catalogue into any kind of security. So many of those guys were financially exploited. Heavy hitters like Bonnie Raitt, Darlene Love, Steve Cropper, Jackson Browne, and Jerry Butler have risen up against the greedy, self-serving policies that dominated the music industry through the 1940’s, 50’s, and 60’s; they’ve supported the Rhythm & Blues Foundation’s Pioneer Awards ceremonies and concerts, which honor and underwrite some of the true groundbreakers of doo wop, blues, and R&B.
Big Joe died in 1982, too early to benefit from these philanthropic efforts. He’s buried a few miles from Crawford. Charlie Musselwhite delivered the eulogy.
Comments