The State of the Blues at the New Millennium
Bill Dahl
As we kick off a fresh century, Chicago blues is suffering from an identity crisis.
A creeping genericism has overtaken the proud genre during the last decade, rendering it much reduced in stature and power from the days when the mighty Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf ruled the Windy City. Living in the past is a futile endeavor, and lionizing earlier eras at the expense of the present can earn a writer the unwarranted designation of "blues purist." But as unlikely as it may seem in the midst of the once-undisputed "home of the blues," it's increasingly tough to discern the current sound of Chicago blues from standard fare anywhere around the globe.
If the 1990s are to be recalled for anything particularly notable on the local blues front, surely it's the onslaught of rampant commercialization. North Side blues nightspots have stepped up merchandising efforts at their prime constituency -- tourists, conventioneers, and suburbanites -- to unprecedented proportions. The selling of souvenirs (everything from the traditional T-shirts and CDs to pricey sweatshirts, leather jackets, and framed posters) has become as important to these savvy entrepreneurs as what they sling up on the bandstand for three sets on any given evening. Call it "House of Blues-itis" -- though that monolithic corporate chain has historically distanced itself from presenting live blues performers outside its expensive restaurants.
All too often these days, live Chicago blues serves primarily as background music for boorish MTV-bred patrons who mistakenly believe their vacuous babble takes precedence over the music they just dropped a hefty cover charge to view. And the clubs usually side with their customers. A couple of years back, during a foray onto the tourist-obsessed River North strip, I witnessed the between-sets humiliation of a reasonably well-known local bandleader by an arrogant bar manager, the young lout yelling that the music was too loud when they were already playing so softly that their vocalist could barely be heard. Apparently the pesky music was interfering with the loud-mouthed but well-heeled drunks at the bar, so down the volume went.
What occupies those bandstands is hand-tailored to please that same ill-informed constituency. As the ranks of older stars who proudly pioneered the idiom dwindle due to old age and attrition, their replacements seem to take one of three basic routes. There's the sincere but misguided wet-behind-the-ears crew eager to assimilate the early 1950s sound at the expense of anything and everything that has transpired since, rendering it tepid and freeze-dried while doing the cherished memory of Muddy, Little Walter, and the almighty Wolf no favor whatsoever.
A more sizable contingency is perfectly content to pack its respective repertoires with the most clichéd, watered-down cover choices imaginable, thus delighting the undiscerning throngs who consider the blues nothing more than a soundtrack for partying. Endless reprises of "Down Home Blues," "Got My Mojo Working," and the dreaded "Sweet Home Chicago" suit these folks -- and the unambitious musicians catering to them -- just fine. Finally, we have the "virtuosos" who adopt the blues as a framework for loud, hopelessly unsubtle, heavily amplified guitar excursions. These thinly disguised rockers hail Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jimi Hendrix as their saviors, failing to grasp what made those icons unique.
Guitar has become the overwhelming instrument of choice among this last and largest cadre of musicians and their followers, whose collective roots usually lie deep in the rock milieu. Piano, and to a somewhat lesser extent harmonica, have fallen out of fashion as lead instruments, forcing the blues into an unfortunate one-dimensional mode. Lyrics --once the lifeblood and primary beauty of the blues experience -- have grown secondary, something of a necessary annoyance to be endured until it's time to indulge in the next seven-chorus guitar solo.
Alas, all this misguided activity does little to advance the genre into the new millennium. What we end up with is a situation similar to the traditional jazz scene in New Orleans, where the same songs are rendered competently, but unexceptionally, decade after decade, their vitality drained while displaying no valid connection to the present, save for the sake of nostalgia.
That's not to say that there aren't a number of valiant blues warriors left gigging on the North Side, though precious few are under the age of fifty. Many of them wield guitars: southpaw Eddy Clearwater sounds rejuvenated since heart surgery a while back, and West Side-rooted Eddie C. Campbell has also recovered from a bout with heart maladies. Byther Smith is as fierce as ever, Jimmy Johnson as imaginative, and recent reports claim that maddeningly enigmatic recent Grammy winner Otis Rush is on the rebound from a notoriously rocky summer.
Eddie Shaw -- the Wolf's hearty saxist for many years -- can still blow up a storm (ditto the ribald A.C. Reed and gentlemanly Gene "Daddy G" Barge, sometime front man for the Chicago Rhythm and Blues Kings). Rock-steady bassist Willie Kent understands better than anyone the value of ensemble playing within his Gents. Among the younger generation, Billy Branch remains the circuit's most challenging harpist; his ex-Sons of Blues guitarist Carl Weathersby, the versatile Maurice John Vaughn, and reliable axeman John Primer exhibit a firm handle on both traditional and contemporary styles.
Backed by his Bluebirds, guitarist Dave Specter inserts delicious tastes of jazz into his approach, gliding with an effortless grace lacking in the pompadoured-and-zoot-suited retro swing movement now fading fast among the fickle twenty-something crowd. Koko Taylor -- operator of her own blues club once more, this time in the South Loop -- endures as Chicago's Queen of the Blues, while her longtime Alligator Records labelmate Lonnie Brooks still wears his Gulf Coast roots proudly on his denim sleeve. Two legendary octogenarians, guitarist David "Honeyboy" Edwards and pianist Pinetop Perkins, offer invaluable insight into the pre-war past.
A handful of long-established local labels -- Delmark, Alligator, Earwig, Blind Pig (though the latter's headquarters are located in San Francisco, it maintains a very active Chicago office) -- continue to record Chicago blues artists on a consistent basis. But despite the above laundry list of standouts, the talent pool isn't anywhere as deep or underutilized as it was a couple of decades ago. Hopelessly derivative older artists are recorded as a tenuous link to the past when they were never original enough to merit their own platters even when they were at peak power.
Whenever doubt arises regarding this venerable genre's longterm future, a trip to Lee's Unleaded Blues on the South Side can provide hope. In this oddly constructed little joint -- it's shaped like a pie crescent with a tiny bandstand secreted off in one corner and two generous bars lining its red-hued walls -- the music exhibits an exhilarating vitality that's been sapped by widespread apathy further north. Its neighborhood patrons respond enthusiastically to every soul-steeped line delivered by Vance Kelly or Johnny Drummer, often taking the mic themselves to passionately sing their favorite song with surprising professionalism. The music lives and breathes here; this is what the blues used to be all about -- and in the right environment, still is.
However, any sweeping indictment of our local circuit has to be firmly tempered by the strange fragmentation of the contemporary blues genre itself. A glance at Billboard's generally superfluous blues chart tells you more than you care to know about what's hot and what's not: attractive tow-headed teens whose rock-soaked approach is barely even identifiable as being blues-influenced are successfully touted by the major labels (who for the most part lost interest in pursuing more traditional artists as the '90s progressed when sales figures didn't equal those of Buddy Guy) as the next blues superstars. One 14-year-old rocker is being pushed as a legit blueswoman despite the fact that her Bonnie Raitt-inspired approach is steadfastly devoid of anything resembling life experience (once a prerequisite for such adult-themed endeavors). No, you don't necessarily have to suffer to sing the blues, but being old enough to legally venture inside the nightspots where the music is featured nightly certainly helps.
Fortunately, Jackson, Mississippi-based Malaco Records continues to succeed by creating new product by veteran blues-soul stars Bobby "Blue" Bland, Little Milton (both Grammy nominees this year), and Johnnie Taylor, at least partially offsetting the teenaged invasion. Fat Possum Records has somehow convinced the yuppie set that its rough-hewn roster of artists represents contemporary Mississippi blues at its most authentic, booking R.L. Burnside and T-Model Ford into rock clubs that would never dream of showcasing local blues acts (in reality, Fat Possum's catalog is extremely inconsistent).
Despite suffering from recent illness, B.B. King is hanging tough; his last two CDs (Blues on the Bayou and a rousing Louis Jordan tribute set) signal an artistic rejuvenation, and flinty Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown recently reverted to his swinging, horn-leavened Texas jump blues roots for a pair of terrific sets for Verve. One-time pop-blues wunderkind Robert Cray -- a crafty songsmith in an era where such skills are depressingly scarce -- is maturing minus the one-time hype (his Rykodisc CD Take Your Shoes Off stands as one of 1999's best blues albums), and Bay Area guitarist Joe Louis Walker admirably continues to experiment on his Verve releases (Silvertone Blues, his latest, is a solid exercise in traditionalism).
The high-profile '90s rise of the blues did encourage national comebacks by a platoon of deserving veteran artists. From Detroit came Johnnie Bassett, Bobby Parker reemerged from Washington, D.C., and Robert Ward from Georgia. Long John Hunter and Texas Johnny Brown rode in from the Lone Star state and a strong Nashville comeback contingent included Roscoe Shelton, Earl Gaines, and Johnny Jones. Los Angeles guitarist Arthur Adams routinely spiked energy levels unseen since the late, eternally great Albert Collins' incandescent heyday. Not only does Ruth Brown epitomize blues-singing class, she's proven a tireless advocate for other artists less successful than she, and until his recent passing, elegant piano master Charles Brown's restoration to international prominence was truly heartwarming. Likewise the amazing return of the late ex-Chicagoan Luther Allison, tragically cut down by cancer while claiming crossover stardom ignited by his high-energy guitar pyrotechnics.
Though the celebrated Keb' Mo's acoustic forays seem a little too facile and polite to be taken seriously, the unplugged movement has benefitted greatly not only from old pros Bowling Green John Cephas and Harmonica Phil Wiggins serving as its advocates, but several young converts to the cause: Alvin Youngblood Hart, Corey Harris, Guy Davis, and locally based Diamond Jim Greene. Larry McCray can be dazzling with an acoustic axe in his meaty hands, but his principal recorded triumphs so far have come on heavily electrified albums that blend blues, rock, and soul into an aggressive brew -- boding well for his future.
Whether blues hangs onto at least some semblance of traditionalism over the course of the upcoming decades or mutates into a sub-genre virtually indistinguishable from rock, one thing's for certain: if you want to experience the reason Chicago has long been venerated as blues capital of the universe, do it now. With every passing year (let alone every decade), another measure of that moniker's validity stealthily slips away. Before too long, there may be none left.
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