Email this article | Printer friendly page Backtalk with Pinetop PerkinsBy Robert Fontenot |
If the term "living legend" weren't a stock cliché used by every celebrity ass-kisser around, we might use it to describe boogie-woogie piano giant "Pinetop" Perkins. It's just as well, though, because even that won't fit him. Pinetop is more of a living repository of blues tradition. If you haven't been clued, let us tell you: this man was taking the place apart before Prohibition. Possibly the last great blues pianist of his era, he's played with everyone from Big Joe Williams to Robert Nighthawk and is best known for securing Otis Spann's seat with Muddy Waters in 1969 when Spann passed away.
Although he's set to turn 86 on July 7th, he's actually working harder than he did twenty year's ago. Examples include the eight releases he's put out in the last six years, including this years Grammy-nominated "Legends" with peer Hubert Sumlin. He’s also just been nominated for what may turn out to be his ninth W.C. Handy award. Should he win, it would be the fifth year in a row that he's been acknowledged as the world’s greatest living blues pianist. You're lucky enough to have Pinetop and Sumlin on a double bill at the Howlin' Wolf on March 17th; we at OffBeat were lucky enough to get this rare interview with him recently. Good news all around.
You were born right in the heart of the Delta. Belzoni, Mississippi, 1913. What was life like at that time and place?
Well, I was really young, you know. I didn’t know too much about what was happening.
But you were playing music at an early age. Guitar, oddly enough.
I was playing guitar ’till around about 1929.
How’d you make the switch?
Well, there was a man in the town, Mr. Scott Morris, and he could make a piano.
From nothing? Just make one?
Well, yeah. He had all them parts, you see. He’d fix a piano and tune it, he could do anything with a piano. He could make a piano like brand new. I worked for him for a while, and he carted all them parts off to me. And I made my own.
Were you listening to any of the old masters, as far as the blues went?
Oh, sure. I’d listen to ANY of them old blues songs them cats was playing. Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Blake, all of them. When I started playing the piano, by that time I’d been listening to these cats, and I already knowed every note on the guitar. So I’d tune [the pianos] off the guitar and fix ’em up, and fix stuff in ’em, and play ’em.
Did you go straight to the juke joints at that time?
No, I wasn’t doing that then, I would play house parties. Back then lot of people had parties.
Any particular memories?
Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t say too much about that. It was really rough, you know. I’d let it alone.
Okay. You moved into the juke joints later, though.
Well, by the last part of the ’40s I was playing with Robert Nighthawk. We were playing all around the South. Then when I was in Arkansas with him, someone heard me and told Sonny Boy Williamson [Rice Miller] to come over there and get me. And we was just playing to advertise the program!
Which one? Radio?
A grocery flour company. What was that? Oh, yeah, the King Biscuit program.
Of course.
We were just playing there to advertise the program, and the boss of the flour company was the one who told Sonny Boy about me. We was tearin’ up radio stations at that time. So I gave Robert two weeks’ notice. I said, "I got to go where the bread’s at."
What’d he say?
He took that all right, I suppose, but someone run him away from me after that.
He came after you?
I think so, yeah. Cairo, Illinois. Somebody thought so, anyway. They got him away from me before I could see him.
You wound up connected to Sonny Boy in another way.
My first wife was Sonny’s first cousin.
You were playing behind Howlin’ Wolf for a time, as well. Was he the character everyone made him out to be?
Oh yeah. Last time we was playing with Muddy in Memphis, we was at a roller rink. And he [Wolf] didn’t carry a band with him, so we just backed him up. He came in wearing a big yellow suit. Brand new. And everyone in the audience started laughin’ at him, sayin’, look at that man in that monkey suit. He got up on the microphone and he said, "I don’t know what y’all laughin’ at. I got enough money to burn up a wet mule." [laughing]
The most legendary Pinetop tale is about the woman who stabbed you. How’d that happen?
Well, we were playing with Sonny Boy at a place called the Dreamland Cafe, in Helena, Arkansas. And this woman was locked up in a bathroom. This man, used to be her husband, put barrels of ashes in front of the door so she couldn’t get out.
Ashes?
Yeah, from the coal, you know. And she kep’ banging at that door, trying to get out, and when someone finally heard her, she’d been in there for hours.
So why’d she stab you?
I was the first person she saw! We was all just out there drinkin’ whiskey. The door opened up, and she saw me on the bandstand. I guess she figured I had something to do with it. She came up and started shankin’ me. Stabbed my hand and my arm so I can’t play the guitar no more. I was bleedin’ like a stuck hog.
How’d you get hooked up with Muddy?
Well, after I got to the first part of ’69, I was playing with Earl Hooker. And Earl didn’t know how to book no dances. So we wasn’t working that much. And somebody said, "Hey, get with Muddy. You can go all over the earth with Muddy." And I did. I played everywhere. Africa, everywhere.
But that ended about 1980, didn’t it?
Yeah. I heard tell Muddy had one of them booking agents, and he would take all that money Muddy made. There wasn’t much left for us. So I quit.
And formed the Legendary Blues Band.
Well, yeah. I was the Legendary in the Legendary Blues Band. It was just the whole band Muddy had. We all left at once. And then after I quit that, I said, well, I’ll go over and just be Pinetop. I was the "Legendary," you know?
And now you’re working harder than ever at the age of 85. If anything, you’re speeding up!
I got my little manager now. And I got a good band, headed by Mr. Bob Margolin.
Steady Rollin’!
Yeah! That’s my main man.
But you’re playing this gig on the 17th with Hubert Sumlin.
Well, see, Bob and them guys are my main band. Him and Rusty Dusty and the rest of ’em. Hubert, he plays a little different ’cause he’s been with Wolf. I’ve played with him off and on. He’s good, you know.
You’re doing more work in the studio, too.
The more I make, the faster I get, with these different labels, they all want me to make a CD. And I’m tryin’ to make my bread, you know. Tryin’ to make a dime. No matter how much I make, I’m still calling it "tryin’ to make a dime." [laughing]
What do you and Hubert have planned for the show on March 17th?
Well, I never know what I’m gonna play. But we usually play "Big Fat Mama," "Hi Heel Sneakers," stuff like that. I don’t have a set, just as I think of ’em, you know. I yell out what key I’m in, and we go. Say, where you from, anyway?
New Orleans. Born and raised!
Oh yeah? New Orleans!
Do you like coming here?
Oh, absolutely. I played there a lot. Tipitina’s, and all out on them riverboats with Muddy. I like the one, the Professor.
Professor Longhair!
I always liked him. The way he played. And he looked like he was buck dancing on stage! [laughing]
So what’s the secret of a full life?
Well, nothin’ but I just talk to the good Lord. And ask him to forgive me for the things that I try to do to make a dime.
The Louisiana Music Collective
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