Tales From the Stage
Articles from Gary WesselhoffSunday, May 11, 2008
Tales from the Stage: Beale Street Blues had a baby.
Random Ramblings from a Bluesman at Large
Hey everybody… g-man here; just walked in the door from Memphis. I had a blast--wish I could have taken some g-man fans along with me.
Wonderful place Memphis is. Good bar-b-q, brews, and blues. It’s a place to lay down some style between the downcast Mississippi Delta, and the smoky Chicago bars that I love so much. The heart and sole of Memphis is Beale Street--there are no words to describe Beale--you’ve got to play it like a tune. That’s what I did; I played there in a place called Dan McGuinness--it was way cool.
Beale Street is a world unto itself; Bourbon Street has nothing on Beale. Nothing. (Ok there are those chicks who've earned their beads but that's it...Ok, Ok, and there's those 190 proof slushy drinks too--but that's it.). There’s every bit as much creativity, craziness, public boozing, and street artisans running tourist scams as Bourbon Street, but Bourbon can’t touch Beale’s Blues. Beale Street even has it’s own (self proclaimed..) Mayor: Rudy Williams--he plays a hellofa horn at that.
Well you know, I went down there looking for the root of blues, but was amazed to find the birth of rock and roll (and I thought it came from those frail guys from across the big pond). Very cool. Born in the USA--we got Jazz, we got Blues, we got Motown, we got Country, and we got ROCK—slam dunk baby! We got game. Who's got the BEST music on the planet? Who's your daddy?
Sun Studio Memphis 1951; a place put on the map by Elvis asserts sole heir to the claim that rock music indeed started in that very spot- - I’m not kidding, there is an electrical tape X on floor where rock started… right… THERE… ROCK STARTED RIGHT…
THERE!
Rock 'n Roll's ground zero.
Upstairs at Sun, behind a hand heel smudged glass case is a faded vinyl record by the fictitious band "Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats". A 1951 tune called "Rocket 88" recorded at Sun. This is the very platter that started rock rolling. The rock history book cites that "In 1991, after a great deal of debate, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame recognized this as the first Rock and Roll song ever recorded." Right there on that freakin' X! Can you believe it?
My tour guide at Sun (a guy named Eldorado) posed an interesting question: "What makes rock, rock? - - I mean why isn’t this song considered blues?
It’s attitude and feel. This song was about a car--the Oldsmobile "Rocket 88" just came out and was the fastest car on the road at the time. It was advertised as having a V-8 "Rocket" engine. Fast cars used for chasin’ fast chicks. That’s Rock in a nutshell.
Or perhaps it might help to think of it this way:
The Blues is Depression- - the past
Rock is anxiety- - the future.
Take a valium and you have Pop Music. It's that simple.
Different sides of the same coin--you flip. It's my turn to call it.
Keep music alive and LIVE!
gman
www.gmanblues.com
Hey everybody… g-man here; just walked in the door from Memphis. I had a blast--wish I could have taken some g-man fans along with me.
Wonderful place Memphis is. Good bar-b-q, brews, and blues. It’s a place to lay down some style between the downcast Mississippi Delta, and the smoky Chicago bars that I love so much. The heart and sole of Memphis is Beale Street--there are no words to describe Beale--you’ve got to play it like a tune. That’s what I did; I played there in a place called Dan McGuinness--it was way cool.
Beale Street is a world unto itself; Bourbon Street has nothing on Beale. Nothing. (Ok there are those chicks who've earned their beads but that's it...Ok, Ok, and there's those 190 proof slushy drinks too--but that's it.). There’s every bit as much creativity, craziness, public boozing, and street artisans running tourist scams as Bourbon Street, but Bourbon can’t touch Beale’s Blues. Beale Street even has it’s own (self proclaimed..) Mayor: Rudy Williams--he plays a hellofa horn at that.
Well you know, I went down there looking for the root of blues, but was amazed to find the birth of rock and roll (and I thought it came from those frail guys from across the big pond). Very cool. Born in the USA--we got Jazz, we got Blues, we got Motown, we got Country, and we got ROCK—slam dunk baby! We got game. Who's got the BEST music on the planet? Who's your daddy?
Sun Studio Memphis 1951; a place put on the map by Elvis asserts sole heir to the claim that rock music indeed started in that very spot- - I’m not kidding, there is an electrical tape X on floor where rock started… right… THERE… ROCK STARTED RIGHT…
THERE!
Rock 'n Roll's ground zero.
Upstairs at Sun, behind a hand heel smudged glass case is a faded vinyl record by the fictitious band "Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats". A 1951 tune called "Rocket 88" recorded at Sun. This is the very platter that started rock rolling. The rock history book cites that "In 1991, after a great deal of debate, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame recognized this as the first Rock and Roll song ever recorded." Right there on that freakin' X! Can you believe it?
My tour guide at Sun (a guy named Eldorado) posed an interesting question: "What makes rock, rock? - - I mean why isn’t this song considered blues?
It’s attitude and feel. This song was about a car--the Oldsmobile "Rocket 88" just came out and was the fastest car on the road at the time. It was advertised as having a V-8 "Rocket" engine. Fast cars used for chasin’ fast chicks. That’s Rock in a nutshell.
Or perhaps it might help to think of it this way:
The Blues is Depression- - the past
Rock is anxiety- - the future.
Take a valium and you have Pop Music. It's that simple.
Different sides of the same coin--you flip. It's my turn to call it.
Keep music alive and LIVE!
gman
www.gmanblues.com
Tales from the Stage: Coyote Highway
Random Ramblings from a Bluesman at Large
It’s very late, and I’m toolin’ down the highway at break neck speeds on my way back from a performance in another world. Even though the horizon is rushing towards me, it never seems to move the way I would like it to: be here now. My feet are burning up from the heater, and I keep shuffling them around in an attempt to cool them off. It never occurs to me to turn down the heat. I smell like cigarette smoke and the radio is annoying me. So is my hair. It’s been a long day.
I see something. Was that a coyote running across the road up ahead? Does Illinois have coyotes? A few miles down the road I see another, and still another. The last looked at me before turning into a mist of vapor. My eyes are playing tricks on me. This coffee isn’t doing it. It tastes like bacon; I was grateful for the last cup in the pot at Road Ranger, and began wishing that I had a couple of eggs to go along with the coffee. Lots of miles to go.
Another coyote. Maybe I should pull over and rest my eyes. I think about tonight’s performance. I had a really fun time. I truly felt like I had connected with a few people out there tonight. It’s happening more and more. No more just throwing a song out and seeing who nibbles. We are all part of a larger thing—seeking the same thing from two different viewpoints.
While I was packing up at the end of the night two women approached me; an older and younger. The older woman made contact. She introduced me to her daughter and told me that her daughter wanted to meet me. She said that her daughter really loved my music and will come back to see me next week if I will come back. The whole time the daughter didn’t say a word, but just stared a hole in me and smiled. That’s ok. Later on she will think of things to say when she’s in the controlled environment of her thoughts.
A moment later a waitress approached and shyly said “I really like your music—I mean I usually don’t like the people who play here, but I really like your music.” That was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day, and there were some really nice people out there saying some really nice things. I noticed her while I was playing; I thought that she was supposed to be stationed by her waitress area, but now I realize that she had subliminally defected to audience side of life without her supervisor suspecting a thing. Good for her. I won’t tell.
That’s a beautiful thing--hey maybe that’s why I am stranded in a steel box zipping down a stretch of road in the middle of the night. As I took another sip of cold bacon coffee, I had to slow down to avoid another phantom coyote. I asked myself "Well g-man was it worth this?"
"Hell yeah!" Rumbled my stomach.
It’s very late, and I’m toolin’ down the highway at break neck speeds on my way back from a performance in another world. Even though the horizon is rushing towards me, it never seems to move the way I would like it to: be here now. My feet are burning up from the heater, and I keep shuffling them around in an attempt to cool them off. It never occurs to me to turn down the heat. I smell like cigarette smoke and the radio is annoying me. So is my hair. It’s been a long day.
I see something. Was that a coyote running across the road up ahead? Does Illinois have coyotes? A few miles down the road I see another, and still another. The last looked at me before turning into a mist of vapor. My eyes are playing tricks on me. This coffee isn’t doing it. It tastes like bacon; I was grateful for the last cup in the pot at Road Ranger, and began wishing that I had a couple of eggs to go along with the coffee. Lots of miles to go.
Another coyote. Maybe I should pull over and rest my eyes. I think about tonight’s performance. I had a really fun time. I truly felt like I had connected with a few people out there tonight. It’s happening more and more. No more just throwing a song out and seeing who nibbles. We are all part of a larger thing—seeking the same thing from two different viewpoints.
While I was packing up at the end of the night two women approached me; an older and younger. The older woman made contact. She introduced me to her daughter and told me that her daughter wanted to meet me. She said that her daughter really loved my music and will come back to see me next week if I will come back. The whole time the daughter didn’t say a word, but just stared a hole in me and smiled. That’s ok. Later on she will think of things to say when she’s in the controlled environment of her thoughts.
A moment later a waitress approached and shyly said “I really like your music—I mean I usually don’t like the people who play here, but I really like your music.” That was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day, and there were some really nice people out there saying some really nice things. I noticed her while I was playing; I thought that she was supposed to be stationed by her waitress area, but now I realize that she had subliminally defected to audience side of life without her supervisor suspecting a thing. Good for her. I won’t tell.
That’s a beautiful thing--hey maybe that’s why I am stranded in a steel box zipping down a stretch of road in the middle of the night. As I took another sip of cold bacon coffee, I had to slow down to avoid another phantom coyote. I asked myself "Well g-man was it worth this?"
"Hell yeah!" Rumbled my stomach.
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