Ain't Bad for a Pink (30 page)

It got worse. The next gig at Rupert’s was cancelled, the management being the same as the doomed Java Blues
.
This was the second club I had seen off and at this point I began to feel frustrated and disappointed. Although there were positive experiences, the second visit was characterised by a sense of diminishment: gigs cancelled; interviews postponed; uncertainty about payment; places closed down; money becoming scarce as the sun’s heat dwindled. My welcome had worn thin. When I was preparing to leave there was tense cleaning taking place around me: “Oh my bed’s gone and the washer is on cleaning my sheets ‘fore they’re cold”.

Another song lyric?

Performing in unfamiliar places, the welcome and the hospitality become very important – it’s how you judge whether an experience, is good or not. I’ve often spoken about the loneliness of solo playing: how insecure everything is and how exhausting it is to play unsupported. You are dependent on the kindness of strangers and if it happens it is as significant as the fee. I suppose this echoes how it must have been for those early blues players, busking for bread, more or less. How difficult it must have been for them to experience the lack of respect they encountered. It seems to me that people performing on this particular circuit of venues still have low status, no matter what their musical ability is and managers are reluctant to pay them if the audience has been thin. Yet there was good feedback: Tom’s drummer said, “Who’s this Snakey Jake character they keep talking about on the radio?” Another friend of Tom’s – Glyn – rang and said, “Snakey Jake was the talk of the blues programme this morning,” and this lifted my spirits.

The anomaly was that my talent and status were appreciated but not at the bleak edge of management where an empty venue was the issue. At best, things were all a bit cheerfully amateurish; I had over-estimated Tom’s influence and this began to depress me.

I returned to America in late summer 2000 for the Labor Day Blues Festival in Georgia: a high spot in my career. I was jubilant about recording
4 Hours in Georgia
as a dream realised and I’m proud of it because I sang the songs as the old guys did – it’s honest and the same recorded as live – but a CD is something you do for others; the live performance was more real and the experience of the festival hasn’t faded. I was performing with my best mate and we were well placed on the bill. I still have the T-shirt with the list of performers: bizarrely the top of the bill is actually at the bottom of the list, like a countdown. We had an appreciative audience and we even found a bar we both liked!

During this third trip to Georgia with Des as my companion, some of the contrasts and anomalies I had already experienced came into heightened relief and our time was characterised by ideological conflict and boredom, as well as some exciting encounters with musicians and intellectuals. Although I hoped to make some money performing because each time I leave my business I lose money, the previous two visits had not reassured me. But this trip I had the good fortune to be sponsored on both sides of the Atlantic.

Keith Bellamy – Bert Bellamy’s middle son – likes the music his father liked and comes to see me perform. Perhaps on the strength of this, Keith sponsored my third flight to Georgia. A generous impulse: “Don’t get one of those flights where you have to change at Newark – get one that goes straight through,” he said as he gave me his credit card details. He also arranged for me to use the Crown, Nantwich, as a free venue for a gig that earned £500 to help with my American expenses.

Unlike the previous times I was not dependent on Tom Hubbard for hospitality. I had been invited by Black Jack – who did the second interview at WRFG – to play at the Blues Festival: an event organized by WRFG. The deal was that I could bring Des and we would receive free accommodation. I had made an independent link as a result of the interview and the fact that
4 Hours in Georgia
had reached number one in the blues chart. My circle of contacts in Georgia had widened.

For the first few days we stayed at Heartfield Manor, Inman Park: a mansion referred to as the “B&B” in my journal and owned by our hosts Harlan and Sandra. Harlan, a left-wing intellectual who has co-written a book about local history
(5)
had set up WRFG, “a peoples’ radio station”, had run it, and was still associated with it. His home was a beautiful building with balconies, wooden floors, good quality traditional furniture, a stunning staircase, books, paintings, displays of archaeological artefacts and comfortable sitting areas. Des and I had five-star adjoining rooms and a shared balcony complete with praying mantis. Heartfield Manor was a cultured environment, with an atmosphere of calm spaciousness where creative people were welcome and where the conversation would cover many topics: literary, social, economic, political, artistic, musical… Des and I enjoyed the communal intellectual stimulation of the nightlong discussions and we found their liberalism refreshing. We were also intrigued by the proximity of musicians such as Pete Seeger and parties that carried on until breakfast, unattended by us as yet. Des and I were conserving our energy for the next day: Festival Day.

After breakfast we walked a mile with our instruments to the festival site. The Labor Day Blues Festival was held in a very large walled complex: an old factory, partly dismantled with the roof and windows gone so that it most resembled a walled garden. I recorded the intensely humid weather, “hotter than Africa” and how grateful we were for the hospitality suite with its cool water, beer and food – all free. Then the inevitable waiting. I stayed on water till two o’clock then had three beers; Des stayed with water.

There were a hundred performers all with their own agendas and it was difficult actually getting on the stage. Because of the egocentric behaviour of one of the bands half way down the list, whose long-winded attention to their own equipment threw out the timings, we were squeezed into a half hour slot. We felt that this band had been disrespectful and annoying. Fortunately the audience was attentive and relaxed – a family audience. The event was well attended and festive yet there was a sense of intimacy and close contact between audience and performer.

Francine Reed was headlining; Beverly “Guitar” Watkins was the penultimate act with Des and I before that. The Producers played Eric and Blind Blake well if a little contrived. We had to cross “Down ‘n’ Out Blues” off our set list. These things happen. Ours was a difficult set with pints of sweat and fried feet! Not only that: our first two numbers were played without either of us being able to hear ourselves, although all came right for our rendition of “Shine” with kazoo solo courtesy of Des and black guys shouting “Shine!” and laughing every time the word came up. Then the twelve string did its usual job.

Musicians are used to things going wrong but I have no tolerance for heat. Des had a more equable approach, pointing out that the musicians from the bands were mutually supportive and kind to one another. Anyway the hospitality was stunning and we relaxed into it to watch Francine Reed moving and singing effortlessly, at one with her music. I was impressed by the sound balance: you could hear all the instruments and, importantly, the singer’s voice with its story. There was clarity and a space for each instrument; a laid-back sense of musical professionalism. The other musicians stood back and let her do what she’s good at. American twelve bar blues is so much less frantic and busy than the UK version. There is an ebb and flow in the music. Hear that piano; hear those vocals; there is none of that loudness that prevents the audience communicating, either. In the UK you would have a
melée
of sound and then vocals on top of that.

Francine Reed received her well-deserved award for lifelong blues activity and sang like a goddess.

Things were hectic. The day after the Festival Des and I were interviewed at WRFG at 7.30 in the morning. We hadn’t made it to bed until about 4.30 after a night of talking on the porch. It was a very shaky start but the interview was good. I performed “Louis Collins” first then stitched Des up to sing a song. He wasn’t going to sing originally but I put him on the spot by announcing over the air that he would be. So he retaliated by singing at a pitch that would make it hard for me. He sang low and I sang from my boots! I finished with a thrashed “Groundhog” then there was another call from Cora Mae saying how good she thought we were. Quite a long conversation and what a compliment.

Because Harlan and Sandra were expecting other guests, Des and I were moved to Dunwoody, a gated condominium with a gymnasium and apartments forming a quadrangle built round a large swimming pool. It was one of many: a vast development of hundreds of apartments as far as the eye could see, aimed at Atlanta executives, or people on short-term contracts or people waiting to purchase. It had a shifting impermanence, like a hotel, which it resembled, and steel security gates for which you needed a pass card and number.

Our apartment was modern, luxurious and spacious. We were asked to keep this exclusive stockbroker arrangement to ourselves because none of the other musicians were receiving anything. Rhonda, the complex manager and our host was connected to the radio station so that’s why we were there: another five-star plus experience all on the strength of my musical efforts.

We named our gated accommodation the “Golden Ghetto”. It was a sterile environment with no sense of community – not even in the pool. We played some music to stay sane and counteract the flatness; my journal entries for this time express a heavy sense of waiting around, of too much TV and beer, of expeditionary quests to find food and drink that suited our pocket. Why do people pay so much to live in an open prison? It was comfortable enough but there was a lack of stimulation and in spite of the luxurious trappings, we were short of cash and we missed the sense of community we experienced with Sandra and Harlan. Their mansion had a different kind of exclusivity: it was a cultural
salon
whose doors were open to musicians and writers but where mere money wouldn’t gain you access. It was intellectual dynamite and reassured me that not all Americans are bigots and racists.

We were invited by Rhonda to a “blues fest” but we declined because we were hard-up; we were waiting for a phone call from Tom Hubbard to make arrangements to go on to his place and I wasn’t that keen on the sort of music offered. She was offended but the Tom Hubbard connection was important: I wanted Des to see the aspects of the South I had experienced in Newnan and also felt it was disrespectful not to visit him since we were in Georgia.

Finally, we left Dunwoody and started a long hot journey, our discomfort emphasised by Des’ bag splitting open and our lack of a vehicle in a country dominated by freeways. If you arrive somewhere without a car you may as well be carrying a loaded gun – people are that suspicious of you. We arrived at Little Five Points: a haven for me throughout my times in America. Phew! The Pabst was sweet – three pitchers before Tom arrived to collect us.

So, we found ourselves with Tom and Kathy in Newnan. Events were not auspicious: travelling a hundred miles to play to a nearly empty room followed by our “usual sponsored beefburger” sums it up. The journal pages are labelled: “Day 12, Day 13, Day 14” but nothing is written there. Was I too busy? No. The pages are empty because there was nothing to write. Perhaps this sounds a bit pathetic and perhaps if I’d had a manager in Georgia things would have gone better. I’ve always managed myself and never knew how to ask someone else to do it. After the amount of publicity I received with my CD I was presuming someone would contact me with some gigs. In retrospect they were no doubt presuming I’d been signed up at my age!

On the fifteenth day we persuaded Tom to drive the 400 miles to Nashville via Chattanooga. As with New Orleans my expectations surpassed what was possible. Considering Nashville’s musical significance and its importance in the Civil Rights Movement, it was a bland experience characterised by urban and rural sprawl spanning several counties. Then my journal records Day 16: “back to Newnan and the wrath of Kathy”.

There was a nasty incident. A black family’s car had broken down and to Tom’s annoyance Kathy went out to them with the phone. “I’ll go get my Glock.” Tom loaded and primed his gun and placed it on his knee. “You can’t trust this black shit.” When the black woman and her ten-year-old son came into the house to use the toilet, Tom’s like John Wayne playing with the gun. A ludicrous but menacing display and I felt devastated. Des felt worse. These people presented no threat; Tom just wanted to humiliate them. It was the culmination of lots of small incidents that had Des and me ringing Sandra to ask for asylum then fleeing as political and emotional refugees to the freedom of Harlan and Sandra’s home. She sounded so sweet and kind – I was crying with relief. “The same two rooms are ready and waiting for you,” she said.

This bust-up had been brewing for some time. Although I was grateful to Tom and very fond of Hoyt, I felt more and more stifled by the cultural barrenness at Newnan and couldn’t identify with their values. If you’re just visiting a place you’re better off living by their rules and although there were some difficult moments in America, I was able to shut out my feelings and get on with things in the interests of my music. But only up to a point and that point had been reached: my nerve went at the moment Tom’s racism threatened a woman and child in his own house – the very antithesis of hospitality.

The intensity of my relief testified to how troubled I was about the clash of values.

Interestingly, Des and I realised that our experiences at Newnan and at the Golden Ghetto were aspects of the same thing: both equally narrow and fruitless. The short, expansive stay at Heartfield was the best of all the Georgian times in terms of human values. But wherever we stayed, the squalid shacks of the poor were always visible. How can a
verandah
be squalid? These were and I felt intrusive when I photographed them.