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19TH MAY 2021
Why Paul Oliver Matters â Oxford Brookes Creative Industries Festival 2021
On Monday 24th May, Dr Christian OâConnell and Michael Roach will discuss the significance of the Paul Oliver collection to demonstrate why he matters in 2021, as part of the Creative Industries Festival 2021 at Oxford Brookes University.
Paul Oliver is regarded as one of the most important and influential scholars of African and American music. During his career Paul Oliver published over 60 articles in music journals starting in 1952 until the publication of his first book (Bessie Smith) in 1959. He went on to publish 10 titles in his name, recorded and interviewed numerous blues musicians that recorded in the 1920s and 1930s. Oliver was unique in arguing that blues developed along a parallel course from jazz and therefore merits study in its own right. His focus was on the cultural aspects of African American life that gave rise to the music we now call the blues.
Dr Christian OâConnell is the author of Blues, How Do You Do? Paul Oliver and the Transatlantic Story of the Blues (2015). Michael Roach is a professional musician and founding member of the European Blues Association incorporating the Archive of African American Music along with Oliver.
Event Details
When: Monday 24th May 2021, 12:00-13:00 BST
Where: Online
Price: Free (registration needed)
For more information, including registration details, visit the Oxford Brookes Creative Industries Festival event page.
9TH JUNE 2020
Discovering the Blues at Oxford Brookes University
On 7 February 2020, the EBA presented âDiscovering the Blues: Paul Oliver and the Blues â an Evening of Live Music and Discussionâ in conjunction with the Think Human festival at Oxford Brookes University.
The first hour of the programme featured live sets by guitarist and director of the European Blues Association Michael Roach, followed by Dr. Tom Attah, a guitarist and course leader in popular music performance at Leeds Arts University. The event then moved to a panel discussion on the history of the blues, and on the life and work of blues historian Paul Oliver. Here Roach and Attah were joined by Dr. Christian OâConnell (Senior Lecturer in American History, University of Gloucester), Dr. Dai Griffiths (Senior Lecturer in Music, Oxford Brookes University), and Prof. Brian Ward (Professor of American Studies, Northumbria University).
Panel Discussion (Photo: Tom Attah)
During the event, the EBA displayed an exhibition on Oliverâs research, together with copies of artefacts from the Paul Oliver Archive of African American Music including recordings, photographs, sheet music, and fieldnotes.
More photos of the event and exhibition can be seen in the gallery below.
14TH FEBRUARY 2020
âYou canât keep a good (wo)man downâ: How Mamie Smith and Perry Bradford beat âJim Crowâ, 100 years ago today
February 14th, 1920 marks a seminal moment in the history of the blues, and perhaps in the whole history of popular music.
One hundred years ago today, African American vocalist Mamie Smith stepped into the recording studios of the Okeh Phonograph Company in New York City to record âThat Thing Called Loveâ and âYou Canât Keep A Good Man Downâ. Upon their release in August 1920, these two titles would become the first commercially released recordings by an African American woman.
Smith is now most frequently associated with her recording of âCrazy Bluesâ, recorded on August 10, 1920. âCrazy Bluesâ sold over 70,000 copies within the first month of its release, and kick-started the production of what was referred to at the time as âraceâ records: that is, recordings of African American performers marketed to African American consumers.
But Smithâs recording career had begun before this point, first with an audition session on January 10th, 1920, and a full session on February 14th. When the recordings from this session were released the following August, they sold over 10,000 copies; this prompted Okeh to book Smith for a second recording session, which would produce âCrazy Bluesâ.
Given the meteoric success and influence of âCrazy Bluesâ, what makes Smithâs earlier recordings so worthy of commemoration? When we consider foundational events in history, itâs easy to focus on one event or âwatershed momentâ, and forget the circumstances and actions that led up to that moment. Smithâs recordings of âThat Thing Called Loveâ and âYou Canât Keep A Good Man Downâ help us to understand the historical processes that made iconic recordings like âCrazy Bluesâ possible. And, more importantly, these recordings help us understand the story of how African Americans were able to break down the music industryâs pervasive racial barriers and enter the recording studio.
âThat Thing Called Loveâ, rec. by Mamie Smith
Mamie Smith was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1883. Like many African American entertainers at the turn of the century, she began her musical career in vaudeville, first with an act called the Four Dancing Mitchells, and then the Tutt Brothersâ show The Smart Set. She left Cincinnati for Harlem in 1913, immersing herself in the neighbourhoodâs thriving nightlife, before joining composer Perry Bradfordâs Maid in Harlem revue at the Lincoln Theater in 1918.
Mamie Smith (1883-1946)
Yet, while African American culture was booming in the theatres and clubs of urban centres like Harlem, black performers were conspicuously absent from a new form of musical dissemination, the sound recording. One reason for this was ostensibly commercial, if unsurprisingly prejudiced: emerging record companies â all owned by whites â erroneously assumed that African Americans had neither the means nor the interest in purchasing records, the bulk of which were dedicated to more ârefinedâ, Eurocentric forms of culture like marching bands, opera, and other classical works.*
The other reason was altogether more invidious. Since the early nineteenth century, American popular culture had been predicated on the minstrel show. White entertainers, âblacked upâ with burnt cork, performed stereotyped songs and comedy routines based on what white audiences believed black music sounded like. For the vast majority of white listeners, characters like âzip coonâ, âmammyâ, and âjim crowâ stood as personifications of black culture and expression.
The global success of minstrelsy during the nineteenth century gave rise to what music historian Karl Hagstrom Miller describes as a âminstrelsy paradigmâ in turn-of-the-century American popular music. According to Miller, the minstrelsy paradigm held that music and culture were performative. By donning burnt cork and costume, performers could âplayâ not only characters, but entire cultures too, whether African American, Italian, Irish, Jewish, Chinese, or one of the many other diaspora communities present in American society.
Consequently, even by the early 1920s, neither industry figures nor audiences considered it necessary to have black artists performing black music. Even though blues music was being composed and performed onstage by African Americans, the singers who first put this material onto disc, like Marion Harris and Sophie Tucker, were white.
Sheet music to W. C. Handyâs âSt. Louis Bluesâ, featuring photo inset of Marion Harris
This state of affairs did not go uncontested, however. Perry Bradford, a Harlem-based composer and pianist, was convinced that putting an African American performer into the recording studio would ignite not only a new vogue for blues music, but would open up a new market of African American musical consumers. Bradford badgered Okehâs musical director Fred Hager repeatedly to arrange a session to record his newest songs, with an African American woman on vocals: âThere are fourteen million Negroes in our great countryâ, Bradford recalls saying to Hager in his 1965 autobiography, âand they will buy records if recorded by one of their ownâ.
In the end, Hager did not directly acquiesce to Bradfordâs petitions: he booked a session to record Bradfordâs new songs, but with Sophie Tucker on lead vocals. But when Tucker fell ill and was unable to attend, Bradford engineered her replacement with Mamie Smith, a seasoned contralto then performing in his latest Harlem show. In doing so, Bradford and Smith succeeded in breaking one of many racial barriers in American entertainment.
Perry Bradford (1893-1970)
Further Reading
âAfrican American Performers on Early Sound Recordings 1892-1916â, Online Text, Music Division, Library of Congress,<https://www.loc.gov/item/ihas.200038862/>.
Bradford, Perry, Born With the Blues: The True Story of the Pioneering Blues Singers and Musicians in the Early Days of Jazz (New York: Oak Publications, 1965).
Dixon, Robert, and John Godrich, Recording the Blues (New York: Stein and Day, 1970).
Horton, Luke, âPerry Bradford: The man who sold the bluesâ, Australasian Journal of American Studies, 32.2 (December 2013), pp. 13-26.
Kenney, William Howland, Recorded Music in American Life: The Phonograph and Popular Memory, 1890-1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
Miller, Karl Hagstrom, Segregating Sound: Inventing Folk and Pop Music in the Age of Jim Crow (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010).
Sampson, Henry T., Blacks in Blackface: A Sourcebook on Early Black Musical Shows (Lanham: Scarecrow Press, 2014).
*In fact, the Chicago Defender had drawn attention to the popularity of gramophone records amongst African Americans, as well as the paucity of African American performers that could be heard on disc, as early as 1916.
22ND MAY 2019
âTrying to make London my homeâ: Blues musicians discover the European market
What did African American blues musicians think of travelling and working outside of the United States? In this post, historic archive sources unlock a forgotten perspective.
Most histories of the British âblues boomâ of the early 1960s are told from the perspective of the listeners and aspiring musicians who made up the scene. Scholars like Roberta Freund Schwartz and Andrew Kellett have painstakingly documented how the blues spread to Britain, first through recordings and eventually through live performances by visiting bluesmen like Big Bill Broonzy, Muddy Waters, and John Lee Hooker. But we know far less about what African American musicians themselves thought of these journeys and the attention they were given by these new, white fans.
Itâs clear that most visiting blues musicians were quite surprised at the attention they received from their British audiences. But this surprise is often evidenced by stories of things that went wrong or misunderstandings between artist and audience. For example, the myth that Muddy Watersâs bold electric blues style was too loud for British audiences, who were more accustomed to the âfolk bluesâ of Big Bill Broonzy, demonstrates the common assumption that visiting bluesmen did not know what their new audiences would want to hear.
Other anecdotes attest to the eccentricity and volatility of visiting blues musicians in their new surroundings. The harmonica player Rice Miller (aka Sonny Boy Williamson II), for instance, decided to channel the âEnglish gentlemanâ on his European tours, appearing in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat during concerts. His interactions with British musicians were often incendiary: members of the then-fledgling Yardbirds recall his heavy drinking and his wanton changes to the tempo and keys of songs during performances (Kellett 2017, pp. 63-64).
Willie Dixon, Sonny Boy Williamson II, and Willie Dixon. Manchester, 1963
Such anecdotes certainly capture an element of visiting musiciansâ personalities, but they also help to amplify the sense of awe that their tellers would have felt when encountering their idols for the first time. Told by performers like Eric Clapton or Robert Plant, who have since become legends in their own right, these anecdotes filter the visiting musiciansâ perspectives through the imaginations of their first British audiences.
Evidence from magazines of the day show another side to the story: in print, African American visitors often appeared more moderate â even diplomatic â and were often acutely aware of the potential of a new audience in Europe.
In July 1961, the Melody Maker published a short interview with the pianist Memphis Slim, who was already building an intercontinental career. By this time heâd already toured Britain, France, Switzerland, Scandinavia, and Israel and Israel that year, and had since worked in France, Switzerland, and Scandinavia.
Slim observed that London was âa haven for bluesâ and that âeverybody in Chicago wants to come over.â Indeed, the pianist speculated that he could himself make money by acting as an intermediary for American blues artists wanting to play abroad: âIf I could sell all the blues players who wanted to come,â Slim joked, âI wouldnât have to work any more.â
Interestingly, too, Slim understood the importance of distinguishing European blues tastes from those of his African American audiences back home:
âI can play things in England â in most of Europe if it comes to that â that I couldnât play at home to my own audience in Chicago. [âŠ] [T]he Negro audience donât want those old rolling blues that I learned in my younger days. At least, most of the time they donât. Not until it gets late, and then somebodyâs sure to call for the real blues.â
Slimâs comments allude to the widespread belief that African American audiences were abandoning an existing generation of blues performers in favour of more contemporary, aspirational, and cosmopolitan R&B and Soul musicians, although it is clear that the blues still held an important place in African American cultural life.
Slimâs comments provide an alternative take on this period of musical history. Most historians see the late 1950s and early 1960s as a period of discovery and change: audiences across Europe began to embrace the blues, prompting groups like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to change the face of popular music forever with their blues-inspired pop. But we should also bear in mind that the African American musicians that these audiences encountered were making discoveries of their own, as they adapted to a new musical landscape that positioned them as the ârootsâ â rather than the innovators â of popular music.
Further Reading
âLondon Loves Blues, Says Memphis Slimâ, Melody Maker, 15 July 1961, p. 7.
Andrew Kellett, The British Blues Network: Adoption, Emulation, and Creativity (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2017).
Roberta Freund Schwartz, How Britain Got the Blues: The Transmission and Reception of American Blues Style in the United Kingdom (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007).
8TH MARCH 2019
The Transatlantic Ties that Brought the Blues to Britain
There is a popular misconception that the blues arrived in Britain in the 1950s and early 1960s when ardent young fans embraced the sound of âfolk-blues singers like Big Bill Broonzy, or postwar Chicago blues legends like Muddy Waters and Howlinâ Wolf. But British awareness of blues music on record has a much longer history, one that stretches back to well before the Second World War. British record companies were releasing recordings of African American blues singers as early as the 1920s. Even as the blues was developing in black communities across America, it was already being heard around the world.
Why is the extent of the bluesâ international circulation so often overlooked? One reason is that when we think about the discovery of blues on record in Britain, we often focus on the stories of the listeners who bought the records: the chance discovery of a record in a second-hand shop, the hours spent frequenting a specialist record store to build a connection with knowledgeable staff or the anxious wait for the arrival of a mail-order purchase. These are all ways in which blues enthusiasts â particularly during the 1950s and 60s â got hold of recordings.
But we can also look at the activities of the record companies themselves. Few major record companies during the first decades of the twentieth century were solely national concerns; they were nearly all multinational companies that produced and disseminated recorded music on a global scale.
One typical example is the Carl Lindstrom Company. Founded in 1893 in Berlin, it produced records in Britain, Germany, and France under the Odeon label, and eventually became a âholdingâ company for a number of other European and American labels, most famously Okeh in the United States and Parlophone in the United Kingdom. This transatlantic link between Okeh â one of the biggest producers of African American âraceâ records â and Parlophone in the UK would make the latter label a market leader in the distribution of American records in Britain.
Parlophone Catalogue, 1925
Parlophone released its first blues record in June 1924: âIf I Let You Get Away With Itâ and âE flat Bluesâ by Margaret Johnson, accompanied by Clarence Williamsâ Blue Five. This was Johnsonâs first recording session. Catalogued as Parlophone E5187, the disc was a direct copy of OKeh 8107. Both sides were recorded on 19 October 1923 in New York City and were released by OKeh in the United States in December 1923.* That a recording of a hitherto unknown blues artist should be released on the other side of the Atlantic, barely six months after its release in the United States is quite remarkable.
In addition to showcasing Johnsonâs talents, both records foreground soloists in Clarence Williamsâs Blue Five, and in particular their soprano saxophonist, Sidney Bechet. âE Flat Bluesâ is credited to Thomas Morris (clarinettist in the Blue Five) and Clarence Williams himself, while âIf I Let You Get Away With Itâ is credited to Jack Frost and Fred Rose. Rose was a vaudeville songwriter, but most of his songs are now more closely associated with country music stars like Hank Williams, Gene Autry, and Bob Wills. Jack Frost â a pseudonym for Harold Frost â was also a popular song lyricist, whose credits include songs like âAvalonâ and âSweet Hawaiian Moonlightâ, made famous by bandleader Ray Kinney.
Margaret Johnson, 1924
So what might have compelled Parlophone to begin releasing vocal blues records at this point? In late 1923, there was a brief craze for âbluesâ dancing, prompting the release of a number of instrumental blues records by both American and British dance orchestras. Around this time, too, The Gramophone Company released Lizzie Milesâs recording of âYouâre Always Messin Round With My Manâ/âDownhearted Bluesâ (HMV B1703), perhaps testing the market for vocal blues sung by African American singers amongst the wash of instrumental records.
Another important influence on Parlophoneâs interest in vocal blues may have been the arrival in mid-1923 of the broadway revue From Dover Street To Dixie, which starred renowned blues and vaudeville singers Florence Mills, Edith Wilson, and Gladys Bryant. Perhaps Parlophone was hoping to convert the success of this theatrical show into a long term interest in vocal blues amongst British record buyers?
Florence Mills, 1923
Unfortunately, the strategy does not seem to have been particularly successful. Although Parlophone would release further vocal blues recordings between 1924 and 1925, such as those by Rosetta Crawford, Eva Taylor, and Sara Martin (as well as two further sides by Johnson)Â the companyâs coverage of these performers pales in comparison to the breadth of their dance music releases, showcasing bands like Vincent Lopez and his Hotel Pennsylvania Dance Orchestra, or small âhotâ ensembles like the Original Memphis Five; these groups dominated the labelâs popular catalogue by the middle of the decade.
It was not until the 1930s that British listeners became seriously interested in African American vocal blues singers â but thatâs another storyâŠ
*According to discographer Tom Lord, Johnsonâs first OKeh release was advertised in the Chicago Defender on 22 December 1923 (p. 9)
Further Reading
Tom Lord, Clarence Williams (Chigwell: Storyville, 1976).
Frank Philips, âParlophoneâs 78rpm âRace Seriesâ â A Surveyâ, The Discographer Magazine, 20 November 2018.
Howard Rye, âShowgirls and Stars: Black-Cast Revues and Female Performers in Britain, 1903-1939â, Popular Music History, 1.2 (2006), pp. 167-188.
10TH JANUARY 2019
Blues Like Showers of Rain: Paul Oliverâs 1960 Fieldwork on Screen
Paul Oliverâs 1965 book Conversation with the Blues is a landmark of blues research. But the photographs and recordings that Oliver collected in the United States have appeared in other contexts, too. This post highlights a lesser-known â but no less provocative â use of his research materials.
Blues fans are likely to be familiar with Paul Oliverâs Conversation with the Blues. Based on Oliverâs 1960 field trip to the United States, Conversation gathers together the testimonies of a wide range of blues musicians, from leading names like Muddy Waters and Little Walter, to lesser-known artists like Butch Cage, or Willie Nix. Alongside stark, black and white photographs also captured by Oliver, Conversation presents searing accounts of African American life and music in the words of those who have lived it. According to blues scholar Christian OâConnell, Conversation shattered many early blues fansâ romanticised perceptions of black life, forcing them to face up to the harsh realities that lay behind the music they heard on record.
Wade Walton outside his barberâs shop in Clarksdale, MS, Summer 1960. Photo by Paul Oliver
In August 1961, for instance, Oliver presented a two-part radio series for the BBCâs Third Programme. Also called âConversation with the Bluesâ, the series â according to the Radio Times â presented âfield recordings collected in the U.S.A. by Paul Oliverâ; the first programme was given the âBlues is a Feelingâ, while the second âWalk a-while, Ride a-whileâ. An archive recording of âBlues is a Feelingâ is held at the British Library.
Oliver also permitted his audio and visual research materials to be turned into a film by the filmmaker John Jeremy. Released in 1970, Blues Like Showers of Rain presents a thirty-minute collage of Oliverâs photographs, set to his interview recordings. Strikingly, Blues Like Showers of Rain features no moving footage or live participants, an approach Jeremy would also take in the 1972 film Jazz Is Our Religion. Instead, Jeremy uses techniques now commonly associated with acclaimed director Ken Burns to bring Oliverâs photographs to life. His subjects speak â and even sing â to the viewer in an arresting portrait of the blues. When the credits roll at the end, Jeremy includes the names of the blues musicians whose voices can be heard in the film.
Fortunately, Blues Like Showers of Rain can be viewed for free online via the Folkstreams website. You can watch the following short trailer here, or follow the link below to view the whole film.
Further Reading
Christian OâConnell, Blues, How Do You Do? Paul Oliver and the Transatlantic Story of the Blues (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015)
23RD NOVEMBER 2018
A Memphis Wolf in Sheepâs Clothing: Muddy Watersâs âSmokestack Lightningâ, Songwriting, and the Postwar Blues Business
âSmokestack Lightningâ is an iconic postwar blues song. But who wrote it, and what can it tell us about the 1950s Chicago blues business?
On 1 September 1954, Muddy Waters and his band entered the Universal Recording Studios in Chicago. Although Waters was already a seasoned performer and recording artist, has been working on the Chicago blues scene for over a decade, this was only the third recording session featuring his full performing band, as it would have been heard in the clubs of the cityâs South Side: Waters on vocals, Little Walter on harmonica, Jimmy Rogers on guitar, Otis Spann on piano, Willie Dixon on bass, and Fred Below on drums.
Leonard Chess, head of Chess Records, was famously reticent for bringing Watersâs whole band into the studio. The bluesmanâs first hits had been solo guitar numbers, with only a light backing from bassist Ernest Crawford. Reluctant to diverge from this formula, Chess would occasionally admit harmonica, maybe an extra guitar, into Watersâs sessions â but not the whole band. Spann, Watersâs stalwart pianist, didnât enter the studio for a Waters session until 1953.
But 1954 was different. Their first session of the year was supervised by Willie Dixon, a bassist and songwriter who had begun to work at Chess as a record producer and A&R man in 1950. Here they cut a song unlike any that Watersâs band had recorded before: âIâm Your Hoochie Coochie Manâ. With its thumping stop-time and exuberant machismo, the record rocketed into the Billboard R&B chart. The bandâs next session, in April 1954, produced another Dixon hit, the equally raunchy âI Just Want To Make Love To Youâ.
Willie Dixon (1915-1992)
With the bandâs September session, Chess got the hat trick it was seeking: the first number cut on this session was âIâm Readyâ, again a swaggering Dixon number that would stay in Watersâs repertoire for the rest of his career. But it is the song they turned to record next that is most interesting: âSmokestack Lightningâ, a song associated with another legendary Chicago blues artist, Howlinâ Wolf. It was one of Wolfâs first chart hits and remains one of his best-known numbers.
Hereâs Watersâs version:
A comparison of Watersâs version with Wolfâs reveals a number of clear differences, but also some illuminating similarities. Musically, both are based on the same single chord, minor-key vamp, although Watersâs version is slower and has a more pronounced swing. Lyrically there are further similarities; both versions feature a constant third line in each verse: âWhy donât you hear me crying?â in Wolfâs version, âNow donât you hear me talking baby?â in Watersâs. This is an idiosyncratic, but the highly significant feature that adds to the songâs feeling of impulsiveness. (My own impression of this song is that Wolf always sounds a little unhinged; looking at the lyrical structure, with each verse anchored by a constant third line, suggests that the singer is indeed âhingedâ â just in the wrong place!) At the same time, Watersâs lyrics feel a little more conventional. Setting the constant third line aside, they effectively follow an a-a-b structure:
Well smokestack lightning
The bells all shine like gold (a)
(Now donât you hear me talking baby?)
Smokestack lightning
Bellâs all shine like gold (a)
How much I love her
Donât nobody know (b)
In Wolfâs version, on the other hand, each verse has only one idea, expressed in the first phase, before Wolf reverts to âoohâ and âwhoo-hooâ sounds:
Whoa, tell me baby
Whatâs the matter with you?
(Why donât you hear me cryinâ?)
Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo
Whoo
Interestingly, Watersâs version models a number of distinctive elements that we now associate with Wolfâs version. Each verse begins with a long and drawn-out âWellâ, similar to how Wolf begins his version, as well as other songs in his repertoire. Watersâ lyrics also strategically leave out some words of the story being told. When he sings âWoman I love / Great long curly hairâ rather than âThe woman I love/has great long curly hair, the effect is brooding and almost animalistic, playing on the bestial undertones of desire that Wolf himself used to great effect in songs like âThe Wolf Is At Your Doorâ or âHowling For My Darlingâ. That Wolfâs version of âSmokestack Lightningâ does not do this is significant: it suggests that the presence of Wolf himself was enough to conjure this image, while Waters had to emphasise it musically to get the same effect.
This is where things get a bit complicated. Watersâ version of âSmokestack Lightningâ clearly owes a lot to Wolfâs style, but Wolf did not record the song until nearly two years after Watersâs session, in January 1956. Wolfâs version was issued soon after recording by Chess, whereas Watersâs version was shelved and not released until it was included on a âRare and Unissuedâ compilation LP in 1984, the year after Watersâs death. Dick Shurmanâs liner notes to this disc observe that Watersâs version is a nod to rival Howlinâ Wolfâ, but the brevity with which Shurman treats this relationship leads me to think that Shurman assumed Watersâs version was a straightforward cover. This cannot be the case, however, if Watersâs version predates Wolfâs.
So we need to think again about the relationship between these two recordings, and the authorship of the song itself. Wolf has always been credited as the composer of âSmokestack Lightningâ; he described how the song was inspired by watching trains in the South: âWe used to sit out in the countryâ, he recalled, âand see the trains go by, watch the sparks come out of the smokestack. That was smokestack lightning.â Wolfâs claim to authorship is bolstered by the fact that we can hear elements of âSmokestack Lighteningâ in a number of his earlier recordings. Wolfâs first record, âMoaninâ at Midnightâ (rec. July 1951), also uses a one-chord vamp, as does âIâm The Wolfâ (rec. February 1952, although not issued until 1970). Wolfâs October 1951 recording of âCrying At Daybreakâ is the closest model for âSmokestack Lightningâ: it bears many similarities, and even uses the fixed-line âwhy donât you hear me crying?â in each verse, and the phrase âsmokestack lightningâ in one verse. Present, too, are Wolfâs signature falsetto âwhoo-hoosâ, and the roaring start to each verse, audible in both Watersâs 1954 version and Wolfâs 1956 recording.
Chess 1618 (1956)
Importantly, all of Wolfâs models for âSmokestack Lightningâ were recorded in the Memphis area. âMoaninâ at Midnightâ was cut at Sam Phillipsâs Sun Studios in Memphis, while âCrying at Daybreakâ was cut at the KWEM radio station in West Memphis, Arkansas and released on the RPM label. (âIâm The Wolfâ was also cut in West Memphis, possibly also at KWEM). But while Wolf did not move to Chicago until 1952, Chess had already signed a deal to release some of his Sun and RPM cuts. Wolfâs music was already having an impact on the Chicago scene in the early 1950s, even if the singer himself was not yet personally present. Chess was becoming increasingly aware of the Memphis blues sound, and its potential popularity on the Chicago (and arguably nationwide) blues market. Their response was that of any business-savvy publisher and record company: make a deal to allow the label to release existing recordings in this style on their own label.
The missing link between these versions, I think, is Willie Dixon. As I have already noted, Dixon was writing songs for a number of Chess artists during the early 1950s. The other two songs on Watersâs 1954 session were both by Dixon, as were the most successful results of his earlier sessions that year. Given the professional rivalry that was developing between Waters and Wolf, it is unlikely that Waters would have decided to pinch one of his labelmateâs songs â less likely still that Wolf wrote it for Waters to record! More likely is that it was Dixon â not Wolf â who wrote âSmokestack Lightningâ and that he did so in response to Chessâs growing awareness of the popularity of the Memphis sound.
Listening again to Watersâs âSmokestack Lightningâ, it becomes clear that the song is not aiming to emulate Wolf specifically, but other Memphis artists too.
The missing link between these versions, I think, is Willie Dixon. As I have already noted, Dixon was writing songs for a number of Chess artists during the early 1950s. The other two songs on Watersâs 1954 session were both by Dixon, as were the most successful results of his earlier sessions that year. Given the professional rivalry that was developing between Waters and Wolf, it is unlikely that Waters would have decided to pinch one of his labelmateâs songs â less likely still that Wolf wrote it for Waters to record! More likely is that it was Dixon â not Wolf â who wrote âSmokestack Lightningâ and that he did so in response to Chessâs growing awareness of the popularity of the Memphis sound.
Listening again to Watersâs âSmokestack Lightningâ, it becomes clear that the song is not aiming to emulate Wolf specifically, but other Memphis artists too.
Junior Parkerâs song âMystery Trainâ, recorded for Sun in October 1953, begins with the lyrics âTrain I ride / Sixteen coaches long, and the same phrase appears in Watersâs cut of âSmokestack Lightningâ. Parker also omits connecting words like âtheâ and âisâ, just as Waters would do in his version of âSmokestack Lightningâ. At the same time, Dixon clearly wanted to link the song sonically to Waters, and his own developing compositional style: the band starts off not with an emulation of Wolfâs one-chord vamp style or Parkerâs rhythmic train pattern, but with a modified version of Dixonâs signature âHoochie Coochie Manâ riff.
Sun 192 (1953)
We may never know the reasons why Watersâs recording of âSmokestack Lightningâ was shelved. Perhaps âIâm Readyâ was judged to have more hit-making potential. Maybe Waters was reluctant to associate himself with a song that was so obviously written to a Howlinâ Wolf template. Either way, the fact that we can compare these two versions sixty years later gives a fascinating insight into the processes of record production on the Chicago blues scene. The musical style was clearly important; these performersâ celebrity status was founded on listenersâ ability to recognise their recordings the instant the disc began to play. But the style was also beholden to market speculation. If the Memphis sound was going to be a hit, Chess was keen to get his leading artists onboard.
(With thanks to Keith Randall for drawing my attention to Watersâs version of âSmokestack Lightningâ)
12TH OCTOBER 2018
âI Been Down So Longâ â J. B. Lenoir describes the blues life
J. B. Lenoir (1929-1967) cut a distinctive figure on the 1950s Chicago blues scene. Although he began his career in Chicago playing downhome blues alongside early postwar stalwarts like Leroy Foster, Sunnyland Slim, and Memphis Minnie, by the mid-1950s his sound was more akin to the refined urban blues of B. B. King and Little Junior Parker. His voice was noticeably high but could be surprisingly delicate, a juxtaposition that was echoed in his visually arresting but effortlessly smart collection of zebra print jackets.
Some of the most notable Lenoir recordings are his topical blues, commenting on the wars in Korea, Vietnam, and the Civil Rights Movement. In this way he is quite unlike other blues stars of the 1950s, who largely avoided overt references to current events in song, but his many performances for white revivalist audiences â particularly as part of the American Folk Blues Festival European package tours â have often emphasised this side of his repertoire.
J. B. Lenoir Checker Publicity Photo, 1955
Of course, Lenoir didnât have to be topical to approach themes of hardship in song. One of his best-known numbers is âI Been Down So Longâ, first recorded on 19 December 1956 for the Checker label. Here Lenoir plays electric guitar and is backed by a full band, including Joe Montgomery on piano and Willie Dixon on bass, and the backing horns duo of Alex Atkins and Ernest Cotton.
In 1960, Paul Oliver recorded Lenoir singing the same song, accompanied only by his guitar. While Oliver interviewed the blues and gospel vocalist Brother John Sellers, Lenoir âplayed quietly in the backgroundâ before offering a song to Oliverâs tape recorder. Sellersâs interview provides a telling context for Lenoirâs theme, describing the psychological weight of living in a segregated society:
Take most blues singers â they have lived rough lives, or they have been rough in their lives before they changed because of hard struggles and hard times â it makes people hard and means towards each other regardless of who they are. If you have poverty you must have hard times and roughness â because if you come up a rough way it makes you tough and ready to battle at anything. Maybe people been talking about you and you get an achinâ. Maybe you with a gang of people and some person, especially some white person say, âMove back!â Well, you automatically think theyâre talkinâ to you. Move back? Move back for what? What have I got to move back for? Poverty makes you rough; it makes you like that â and thatâs part of the blues.
Without his full band, Lenoirâs performance is more intimate and more emotional than the Checker version. Oliverâs close-quarters recording allows us to hear the whole range of Lenoirâs voice, as well as the crafted interplay between his words and the guitar accompaniment. It invites us to wonder about Lenoirâs own experiences of âhard times and roughnessâ, so often out of earshot in his more exuberant performances.
Further Reading & Listening
Paul Oliver, Conversation With The Blues, 2nd edn. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997)
Paul Oliver, Conversation With The Blues: A Documentary of Field Recordings, Decca LK 4664 (1965)
25TH JULY 2018
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1ST OCTOBER 2015
Interview with Paul Oliver
20 Minute Podcast with Michael Roach interviewing Paul Oliver in 2009.