Nighthawk Blues (29 page)

I could see my peoples

They ain’t coming hack no more …

When they returned to the table, Mose was gone. “What did he want?” Jerry said suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing.”

“You’re not going to the party afterwards?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh. You want to dance?” he said. “I didn’t fall down.”

“Sure,” said Lori cheerfully. “Why not?”

The dance floor was packed, and Hawk was doing a slow number, one of his favorites.

People are talking, all over town

They all saying, you gonna put the old man down

Well, baby, don’t deceive me

Please don’t leave me

Baby, please don’t go.

Jerry just let it wash over him, he wanted to bathe in the sensation the way Hawk lost himself in the verse, repeating the simple words over and over with countless variations of tone and phrasing and a passion that increased with each repetition. Lori wrapped both arms around him and clung tightly, he felt her softness, he felt her breasts, he imagined her wet until he got a hard-on and closed his eyes. He loved her. I love you, you know. Didn’t that count for anything? Of course it did.

“I love you,” he said into her hair.

“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “That tickles.”

“You know, that tickles me,” said Hawk in imagination, “to think of how you loves her, how you been loving her all these years and afraid to speak your mind.” He had never said that. He had never talked to Hawk about Lori. He never would. She felt soft and pliant and open, like a flower about to bud. He cupped both hands around her ass and squeezed her gently. She squirmed. He imagined his finger entering her through her clothes. Tonight he knew he would fuck her. He felt sure of it now. He would sleep with her, and in the morning her hair would be fanned out on the pillow and she would be radiant in sleep. He would fuck her tonight and she wouldn’t care how much noise she made or who she waked in the little cabin. He would fuck her, and it wouldn’t mean a thing. But that didn’t mean anything either. He could almost taste the salty brine. He could almost ache with anticipation.

Up on the small stage Hawk was getting tired. Like a phonograph winding down, he thought. Words coming out harder, everything slowing down. He looked over at Little Bo and gave him a nod. Time to wind it up—phonograph couldn’t get wound up no more, needle was broke, wasn’t no more lead in the pencil. Hunh! The dancers politely applauded, what the fuck did they care, they just wanted to go on about their own business. The boy done good, have to tell him that afterwards, he worked hard while I was gone, and it
paid off.
“Thank you, ladies and gen-demens,” and then something caught him up, a little gust of wind maybe, maybe they were
too
quick or he just wanted to give them something to think about, Little Bo was already setting the guitar down when he hit the opening notes, watched the music go right through them, it wasn’t the electricity, it was the music, Little Bo picked it up, good kid, nice boy, he thought he could smell the smell of a fish fry, somewheres they was having a fish fry, miles away out in the country, smell come drifting in soft as memory, if he closed his eyes he could picture it—
Don’t!
Don’t close your eyes, something told him. His head buzzed—or maybe that was the amp. His head hurt. Don’t let yourself sink under. Finish the song. Don’t quit now. Don’t quit
never.
Just keep it going. It be over soon enough.

Well, that moon going down

Sun refuse to, sun refuse to shine

Well, that moon going down

Sun refuse toshine

Well, that no good motherfuck

stole that gal of mine.

Was it his imagination, or was the room rocking? Flames licking at the windows. Don’t sink, don’t sink. He forcibly lifted his eyes up—people laughing and joking, jiving each other, having a
good
time. Whoo-ee. Just like it always been. Just like it always be. Till the end of time. Till the world gonna end.

Well, that smokestack Hack

And the bell it shine like,

Bell it shine like …

GOLD!

Well, that smokestack Hack

And the hell it shine like gold

Well, I ain’t gonna stop walking

Till I get in pretty mama’s door …

Oh, now we got it, now we got it, that’s it, we got ’em jumping like a champ. Bell, it shine like, bell it shine like GOLD—that’s just what it like. That bell, it shine like—but, you know, it ain’t easy. It ain’t easy. It hard. What the other words? I can’t remember the words so good anymore. Bell, it shine like GOLD. They tells me I never was no good at words, but that ain’t true, and it don’t matter neither. It’s the feeling
behind
the words. Ain’t nobody ever said I don’t have the feeling. Bell, it shine like
GOLD.

Oh man, oh man, I don’t feel so good. People still out there? You make yourself look them in the eye like a man, just like your mama tole you. Yeah, they there. They
still
laughing and joking, world hasn’t ended yet, won’t end till tomorrow morning, when they wake up beside somebody else’s wife or husband, or else somebody shoot out the lights. Bell, it shine like
gold.
I ain’t gonna let go. I ain’t never gonna let go. That boy don’t under stand. If you got it, you
can’t
let go, else otherwise it let you go somehow. Can’t see nothing. Can’t hear nothing but the music. Open your eyes, you damn fool. Open your eyes. Yeah, I open my eyes, they be putting their hands together. I touch myself, and I can feel the sweat pouring down. I didn’t die! This is what I really want.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Guralnick is widely regarded as one of the nation’s preeminent writers on twentieth-century American vernacular music. His other books include a prizewinning, two-volume life of Elvis Presley,
Last Train to Memphis
and
Careless Love;
an acclaimed trilogy on American roots music,
Feel Like Going Home, Lost Highway,
and
Sweet Soul Music;
and the biographical inquiry
Searching for Robert Johnson.
He is currently at work on a biography of Sam Cooke.

Look for these other books by Peter Guralnick

Feel Like Going Home
Portraits in Blues and Rock ’n’ Roll

“Original, brilliant, and, most important, passionate. … One of the finest books ever to appear on the subject of American musicians.”

— Jon Landau,
Boston Phoenix

“The most loving book I have ever read about American popular music.”

— Greil Marcus,
Rolling Stone

Lost Highway
Journeys and Arrivals of American Musicians

“A book not just for fans, but for anyone interested in music, American popular culture, and quietly eloquent writing.”

— John Rockwell,
New York Times

“You put the book down feeling that its sweep is vast, that you have read of giants who walked among us. … Guralnick consistently gives us scenes along the road that are so strange and haunting, or touching, that they make the whole trip worthwhile.”

— Lester Bangs,
Los Angeles Herald-Examiner

Sweet Soul Music
Rhythm and Blues and the Southern Dream of Freedom

“A stunning chronicle. … A panoramic survey of a lost world. … That world now lives on in the pages of this heartfelt history — one of the best books ever written on American popular music.”

— Jim Miller,
Newsweek

“The best history of ’60s soul music anyone has written or is likely to write, but it is much more than that. … Written with rare sensitivity and understanding,
Sweet Soul Music
is as important for what it says about America, class and race issues, and the ’60s as for its outstanding musical insights. … A classic.”

— Robert Palmer,
New York Times

Available in paperback wherever books are sold

Look for Peter Guralnick’s acclaimed and
bestselling two-volume biography of Elvis Presley

Last Train to Memphis
The Rise of Elvis Presley

“A triumph of biographical art … profound and moving. … Even the minor revelations are positively spellbinding.”

— Stephen Wright,
New York Times Book Review

“Altogether splendid. … It is the particular and spectacular achievement of
Last Train to Memphis
that it holds both the making of the history and the beginning of the myth in firm, simple, and compassionate focus.”

— Jay Cocks,
Time

“Elvis steps from the pages, you can feel him breathe, this book cancels out all others.”

— Bob Dylan

Careless Love
The Unmaking of Elvis Presley

“Hypnotic. … Nothing written about Elvis Presley comes close to the detail, authority, and uncondescending objectivity that Peter Guralnick has brought to his two-volume biography.”

— Andy Seiler,
USA Today

“Monumental. … With the intense and objective eye of a master biographer … Guralnick takes the reader into the underlying issues of class, race, and the American desire to transform who we are into something better.”

— Lucinda Ebersole,
Chicago Tribune

“Guralnick’s two-volume life of Elvis Aron Presley is not simply the finest rock-and-roll biography ever written. It must be ranked among the most ambitious and crucial biographical undertakings yet devoted to a major American figure of the second half of the twentieth century.

— Gerald Marzorati,
New York Times Book Review

Available in paperback wherever books are sold

“Richly textured reading for anyone who loves the blues.”

—
STEVE DOLLAR, ATLANTA JOURNAL-CONSTITUTON

The Screamin’ Nighthawk

is a legendary bluesman, an uncompromising musician, and a cantankerous old man awash in memories of road trips and one-night stands, recording sessions and barroom escapades, love affairs and driven, inspired, down-home music making. As Hawk travels back down Highway 61 to Yola, Mississippi, for what may be his last gie, the novel immerses us in the word of Hawk, his friends and family, the nursemaid manager he craftily evades, and the beautiful young blues singer who alone can crack Hawk’s crusty exterior.

Peter Guralnick — in this, his only novel to date — has drawn on his rich storytelling skills and his intimate knowledge of music to create an unforgettable character, and to give us a rare, unvarnished, utterly compelling look at the blues life.

“Guralnick clearly knows his stuff. The Nighthawk is brought alive — a little dirty, smelly, obstinate, and sexy, hateful to his enemies, who are all over the place and never forgotten, still in love with all the women he ever bedded. . . . Anyone who likes Studs Terkel and George V. Higgins, who enjoys the headlong pace, will enjoy
Nighthawk
Blues.”

—FRANK PIERSON, LOS ANGELES TIMES

“There’s a finaly tuned sensibility at work in
Nighthawk Blues.
. . . Guralnick has fashioned a portrait that reveals his subject’s nobility through humanizing rather than
–
glorifying him.”

—DON MCLEESE, CHICAGO READER