It wasn’t really that long ago that Eric Lindell was doing scattered gigs at the Old Point Bar near his house in Algiers and playing every Monday night at the Circle Bar. On many nights during the early days of the Circle Bar gig, the audience was still sparse enough to make even the tiny confines of that Lee Circle hideaway feel a little empty. Regardless of whether the crowds were there or not, Lindell’s warm vibe and soulful voice proved to be a magnet for musicians, and many of New Orleans’ finest made there way over to jam with him and his band. After a while, the word spread and those Monday nights became a hotspot. The local media started to take notice, and Jazzfest head-honcho Quint Davis dropped in for a visit. And it all started to roll from there.

Now Eric Lindell is signed to the prominent blues label Alligator Records, after years as an independent touring bandleader and recording artist. His debut for the album, Change in the Weather, is in stores now.

“What I did was license 14 songs to Alligator and they remastered them in Chicago in a nice studio,” Lindell says. “Stuff that I had produced and put out myself. So it’s cool to see it go to use because a lot of that shit was on six-song EPs. I’d put two CDs out in a year and they kind of slipped through the cracks.”

While his recordings may not have hit nationally, his prolific output — four CDs in three years — was readily received in the New Orleans area. By Jazzfest 2003, his sound was well known around town through his live performances and his CDs, which were spun regularly on WWOZ and barroom jukeboxes. It had taken four years of hammering it out in the local bars, but Lindell had finally started to establish a New Orleans fan base comparable to the one that he had left behind in his native California. West Coast runs that capitalized on his Cali draw had helped support Lindell while he built up his new musical home down south. New Orleans, though, was also becoming viable moneymaking territory for him.

Alligator came knocking last summer, and Lindell’s deal with the label was still being worked out when Hurricane Katrina hit. He was out on the West Coast with his band, which includes guitarist Chris Mulé and bassist Aaron Wilkinson. They all lived in New Orleans and they were, like hundreds of thousands of others, stranded. They joined forces with another displaced musician, and in doing so brought one of the great masters of the modern New Orleans groove into their fold.

“Running into people, it’s just awesome,” Lindell says. “Kirk [Joseph] was out there with his wife Vanessa right after the hurricane hit, I guess doing some stuff with Anders [Osborne]. They were just stuck there, so we said, ‘Come on man, get on with us!’ We had Aaron on bass, Kirk on sousaphone, and we did a string of dates down southern California and it’s been just a lot of love.”

Being on the road under the flag of the Crescent City in the immediate aftermath of Katrina exposed Lindell and the band to an outpouring of emotion from supporters of New Orleans and music lovers around the country. Lindell kept a positive message front and center.

“I came back (to New Orleans) at the end of October. That was the first time I was back,” Lindell says.

“I’ve been telling everybody it’s going to come back strong. The people that love here are great, all of the people that are from here and the people that always come here and love New Orleans for music. The support is unbelievable from everyone everywhere. A lot of people are just returning what New Orleans gives. People are so grateful for the music that comes out of here.”

In the post-Katrina world, many New Orleans musicians have been the beneficiaries both of an outpouring of support around the world and a financially revitalized scene at home. Lindell and his bandmates have felt the shift as more love is being focused on New Orleans and its music. “Like Kirk was saying to me, even though it’s terrible, it helped a lot of musicians out,” Lindell says. “Everybody I know right now is working so much.”

As Katrina’s floodwaters receded, Lindell cemented his deal with Alligator. With his first label contract in his pocket and a tight road band under his wing, Lindell has his sights set firmly on the future.

“I’ve been writing songs like a madman, so that’s something in the long run that I plan on doing for Alligator, their other artists, is writing for them,” he says. As for recording his band under his new contract, Lindell wants to bring the whole process home to New Orleans. “We’re excited to do that, to actually get in and get everybody involved in writing and crank out a brand new record,” he says. “I’d like to go back to Piety (Street Recording studios) if possible. There’s just such a good vibe over there.”

After so many years in the business as an independent, what he desires from his newly acquired status as a signed artist is what almost everybody else wants — “Mainly to get us more comfortable,” he says.

“The basics, man. You know what I’m saying? To have a van with insurance!” he says, laughing, “and a trailer!

“Having the pieces of the puzzle together is going to help things run a lot smoother because we’ve been out there. When you’re out there plugging away and you got an agent but you don’t have a label, anybody working press, you don’t have merch (retail merchandise) sometimes — there’s no point of doing a show opening for somebody in front of a few thousand people and having no merch, and that shit happens.”

While Lindell has his core band of Mulé, Wilkinson, and his longtime west coast associate Jake Brown on drums, he still loves to mix it up with other musicians in the way that no other city besides New Orleans really affords. His full time band can handle the big gigs and the festivals, while spur-of-the-moment combinations can create great one-off moments.

“That’s what the beauty of New Orleans, that we can do that here,” marvels Lindell. “We can throw different things together and make it different and be able to still do Circle Bar.

"We did a show at Tip’s the other weekend and had an awesome show with our core band together, and it was great, man. The next weekend I played with (New Orleans drummer) Allyn Robinson, and (veteran guitarist and walking blues encyclopedia) Jack Cole, who’s my — he’s like probably what [Johnny] Vidacovich is to Stanton [Moore], to me — and (sought-after R&B keyboard stalwart) Marc Adams. That’s the beauty of New Orleans, being able to do stuff like that.”

You couldn’t park on the same block as the Notre Dame Catholic Church that bright Wednesday morning. Summer had settled into St. Martinville, but the Louisiana heat didn’t stop people coming from far and wide to say goodbye. Small waves of mourners and well-wishers continued to file into the already packed church during the service. In the aisle stood a large coffin containing a big man in a powder blue suit with a long coat and matching hat; a giant of a bluesman, an eternal child, a Louisiana country boy. The same man who’s picture was on the front page of the Times of Acadiana that day. Prayers and praise were uttered, songs were sung, and tears trailed down some of the faces. Harry Hypolite had gone home.

I’ll never forget the day I met Harry. How could I? It was my first day on the road as a professional musician. I had boarded a plane from New Orleans on less than 24 hours notice to go on tour for a month with a bunch of guys I’d never met. The gig was with C.J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band—some people called them the best zydeco band in the world. They met me in the lobby of the shoe box airport in Winston-Salem. I was the only person deplaning the eight-seater with two guitars, so C.J. figured I was his guy. He pointed a gunslinger finger at me and said “You must be Marcus! I’m C.J., and this here’s Gumbo, Humpy and Red, and out in the van we got Big Daddy.”

And so began my adventures with the Red Hot. A hulking man with ebony skin and suspicious eyes occupied the front passenger seat of the van. Big Daddy. He didn’t say word one to me until we got to the barbecue joint. Not that anyone else said much either, these weren’t the warmest, fuzziest bunch of road dogs you’d ever met. Harry and I finally broke the ice over plates of ribs and chicken, but it wasn’t until we hit the stand that night that I saw that trademark sly grin, the beaming look that Harry had used to light up countless stages and work his way in and out of more situations than I’ll ever know. He blended innocence and mischief into one seamless expression of joy, and his guitar rang out like a bell. His tone was pure, each note spoke the truth. I would keep my ears glued to Harry’s guitar for the better part of a year, soaking up the sparkling lines and supple rhythms that he carried from a time long before my own. The blues, straight from the fields and tinged with the unmistakable lilt of a Creole man and his culture.

Harry Hypolite was born in St. Martinville, south of Lafayette, on April 15, 1937. He spoke Creole French until his one year of schooling introduced him to the English language. He picked cotton and cut cane, and he would stack soda crates outside the local juke joint to peep in the window and catch a glimpse of T-Bone Walker, Gatemouth Brown or Guitar Slim. It was the dawn of the age of electric music, and Harry was drawn to the loud guitars and even louder suits that marked the cutting edge of black music in the Deep South. By the early ’50s Harry had an electric guitar and some slick suits of his own and began what would become a six decade career in music. He would play behind legends like Clifton Chenier, Big Mama Thornton and Slim Harpo and tour the world for over a decade with C.J. Chenier before joining his nephews Nathan and Dennis Paul Williams in Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas. From there he would embark on the too-brief solo career that finally put a spotlight on his considerable talents, earning him acknowledgement as one of the last of the real deal. His prowling stage swagger, the power that he exuded from his massive frame, the knowing light in his eyes, all reflected the energy of that magic time when electricity first lit up the backwoods with rhythm and blues and created the sound that jolted the American soul. By the time he died tragically on I-10 a few weeks ago, the country boy from St. Martinville had been around the world multiple times. He had been treated as cultural royalty in European capitals, shared the stage with almost all of the greats of the blues world, and touched people from every walk of life. Harry was magnetic, his charm could cut through any boundary and his music spoke straight to the heart. His big, gruff voice sang in English and French about the dire poverty of his childhood, his love for life and his taste for big-legged women. He meant it, every word of it, and he lived it.

At the time I joined C.J.’s band, things weren’t so good. Despite their status as a major roots music touring act, the band was in disarray. The group was plagued with drug and alcohol problems and management was nearly non-existent. Harry was the last member of Clifton’s band to remain on board, and after 15 years on the road together, he and C.J. had had about enough of each other. Even though Harry sang and led the band to warm up each set for C.J., usually to a great crowd response, he wasn’t treated like a valued member of the band’s front line.

In 1999 C.J. took an unannounced vacation while on a package tour with the Fabulous Thunderbirds and Gatemouth Brown. Long time Red Hot washboard player and fellow St. Martinville native Clifford “Humpy” Alexander Jr. convinced the promoter to let Harry fill C.J.’s spot on the roster. Backed by Gatemouth’s band with Alexander on washboard, Harry stepped up to center stage and delivered. Harry left the band soon after with his sights set on a solo career.

“I told him, you been a follower all your life,” recalls Alexander. “You’re a damn leader, go be a leader.”

From the chaos of the Red Hot, Harry retreated to the family environs of Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas. Within a year Chad Kassem signed Harry to a solo deal with APO Records. Harry traveled to Blue Heaven Studios in Salina, Kansas and, at age 62, recorded his first album. Louisiana Country Boy, Harry’s debut and only official release, brought him awards, festival gigs, international tours, and finally, the recognition that he had paid 50 years of dues to earn. The week he died the Times of Acadian readers poll dubbed his band Best Blues Band, an honor he could count amongst his Handy Award nominations, accolades in European magazines and his place in the Louisiana Blues Hall of Fame.

I can’t begin to tell you what a pleasure it was to know Harry. He helpedme through some tough times on the road, and he always let me know I had a friend. We played all over the U.S. and Europe together, we knew each other’s families. He never failed to ask about my mom. The shows we did together in subsequent years were only made sweeter by that extra glint in his smile, the knowledge that he was the star of the show. Thanks to all of the people who supported our gigs with Harry, and to Mathilda Jones, Eric Lindell, Walter Washington and all of the musicians that took part in the Louisiana Blues Throwdown series, which was built as a feature for Harry.

It took a long time for Harry to even start to get his due, and it’s hard to see him go so suddenly when so many things were rolling his way. He was the real thing, no one else could wear that suit and swing that guitar quite like he could. When he sang in his big, raspy voice, with his impish cackle breaking loose now and then, it didn’t matter if he was singing in French or in English thick with his Creole accent. Harry always got his point across, he knew how to talk to the soul.

Harry “Big Daddy” Hypolite passed away in a car accident on I-10 near Baton Rouge on the  morning of June 22. Foundations are being set up in Harry’s honor, and tribute concerts are being planned in New Orleans and Lafayette.

“I don’t smoke crack, I don’t get high, I ain’t into sports. Music is what I do. The core of it is what I got from my grandmother and my grandfather.”

Sitting on the couch of his studio in Hattiesburg, fifth-generation Mississippi musician and A-list guitarist Vasti Jackson is discussing the main impetus behind his life-long, world-wide journey in the blues.

“Some people can say, well, Lightnin’ Hopkins, but I say Sammy Jackson, ’cause that’s my reference point. My grandfather is my reference point.”

Vasti heard his grandfather’s gritty blues and the gentler gospel of his grandmother, Mary, all through his childhood in McComb, Mississippi. His grandparents’ individual musical leanings reflected their divergent lifestyles. Sammy Jackson was a hard-living Delta bluesman with a taste for worldly pleasures while Mary, still alive and writing songs at 85, is dignified and devout. Their respective approaches to music were not only shaped by their values systems, by also by cultural differences. Sammy was short and dark-skinned, Mary was tall and fair, partly of Irish descent.

“She of course fell more into the gospel and spiritual aspect of the music,” recalls Vasti. “Because of her heritage it always had this waltz-like thing where when he played it was much more groove and just intense. Her thing was almost like an Irish jig, her phrasingº So I had that in my family. I always had that combination of Europe and Africa.”

Vasti, whose name means to will or to command in Sanskrit, also counts African-Americans of Arabic descent, Native Americans and even a Jewish rabbi amongst his blood relatives. The breadth of his bloodline is matched by the wide spectrum of music that he has been called upon to play since his late teens. At 45, he has worked in the top tier of the blues world for over two decades. He has toured or recorded with B.B. King, Little Milton, Bobby Bland, Katie Webster, Latimore, Philip Bailey, C.J. Chenier and Cassandra Wilson and has acted as bandleader or musical director for Johnnie Taylor, Bobby Rush, and Z.Z. Hill. He has played on and produced more recording sessions than he can possibly recall. Recently he helped produce Henry Butler’s Homeland CD and has been appearing frequently in New Orleans as a member of Butler’s band.

Jackson’s professional career began at age 14 in south Mississippi juke joints playing with Big Moody and the Royals. Coming from such a musical family, he had a good ear and natural understanding of music, but a tough lesson at age 15 would show him that raw talent would only take him so far.

A relative arranged for Jackson to play for the stage band director at McComb High School. When  he plugged in the band director gave him a chord chart. He didn’t even know the names of chords, let alone how to read a chart. The band director then counted off a jazz tune with more complex chord changes than Jackson could decipher on the fly.

“ After about 20 seconds he stopped the band, about 19 or 20 musicians, and told me to unplug my guitar and not to come back and play for him until I could read music.”

Humiliated but not discouraged, Jackson threw himself into the formal study of music, learning not only to read, but to transcribe, transpose and arrange music. He would eventually attend college on a percussion scholarship, and his wide range of skills would help open the doors to a very productive career with Malaco Records as a musician, arranger, and producer before he was 20.

Along the way Jackson would often sing to open shows for the artists he worked for. With much prodding from the legendary, but vastly under-rewarded, guitarist Wayne Bennett, as well as pianist Katie Webster, Jackson released a solo album, Vas-Tie Jackson. His current, self-produced release, No Borders to the Blues lives up to its title by touching on many facets of music. It’s all over the map stylistically, and often lyrically ambitious.

“I think that’s one of the things that are lacking in modern blues writing,” asserts Jackson. “Stories, subject matter, you know what I mean?”

The subject matter of the songs on No Borders to the Blues is as varied as the musical approach Jackson applies to make his statement. Some of the songs seem to present contradictory messages, such as the biting political critique of “Monkey Di Doo” and the overtly patriotic “America, Proud and Strong.” While some might see the sentiments of each of these songs as in conflict with one another, Jackson sees them as two sides of his personal feelings.

“When I did that song [‘America, Proud and Strong’], some people said ‘Don’t put it on this record.’ Maybe they thought the song was right wing, but it’s not. I’m glad to be an American and I love this country. It’s like your kids. Do I like everything about America one hundred percent? No, but I don’t like everything my sons do either. Am I going to cast my sons away? No.”

Jackson’s feelings about the importance of music, and the difference between the art of making music and the business of making a living, are as strong as the conviction behind his lyrics.

“Whatever you pay me I’m going to work harder than what the dollar is,” he asserts, “because I don’t equate music with money. I mean, there’s business and money and I have to survive, but whether it’s a hundred dollars or a thousand dollars, I’m not going to play less. That’s not gonna happen because music is too important, too much of a gift to me.”

That being said, Jackson’s spirit of giving doesn’t mean he’s willing to lay down and be a blow-up doll for the powers that be. When his performance of an original song made the final cut of Martin Scorsese’s documentary series The Blues, Jackson held his ground when he was offered barely any compensation for his original work.

“We fought like hell over the publishing and all that with Scorsese,” says Jackson with a hint of disbelief. “I didn’t give it up. I got mechanicals. I fought like a fucking dog, man. They wanted not only publishing but writer’s for all the original stuff, they wanted total ownership. It was like the release from hell. I was amazed.

“But still in all, all of this is a blessing. I think once we deal with the art, then we deal with the business. Those are two separate things. I believe that in all things if you don’t have something worth stealing you don’t have anything.”

With his youngest son’s high school graduation (both of his sons are musicians, as is his cousin, who is a widely respected classical cellist), and the resulting relaxation of his child-rearing responsibilities, Jackson is able to spend more time playing in New Orleans.

“New Orleans affords me the opportunity to speak with a broader voice. If I want to stretch the boundaries harmonically, within a blues form or structure, the audiences,their ear is a little more receptive to that, which is great. Whereas in Mississippi it’s based more on the story and a consistent groove and feel that actually is better served with that underlying or even overt gospel thing. I’m very conscious here [in Mississippi] of being very lyrical with solos. I can be lyrical in New Orleans, but when you’re playing with people like Henry Butler, then it’s a different language, and I love it. I’m inspired by the great musicians in New Orleans.

“It was so good to reconnect with Little Freddie King, my mother’s first cousin. When I hear Freddie I hear my grandfather. There are vocal phrases that sound like my grandmother when Freddie sings, and there are things that he plays on the guitar that are my grandfather.”

In talking to Jackson about his music, it becomes obvious that his grandmother has always been a guiding force in his life, musically and personally. This naturally brings up the question of how she, as a pious and religious woman, has reacted to his choice to live the blues life.

“My grandmother would joke about it actually”, says Jackson, smiling. “Because my grandmother is tall and she always wished I would be taller. So she’s very thankful that God graced me with the gift to do music because it meant I didn’t have to work manual labor.”

Vasti Jackson will perform at the Blue Nile on Thursday, June 2, and at the Old Point Bar on Monday, June 13.

“Our music and sacred steel music has always been about the congregation, and right now the congregation is starting to be the world.” These are the words of Chuck Campbell, master of the pedal steel and a decades old musical tradition that is only in very recent years being heard outside of a small number of House of God Pentecostal churches. He and his brothers, lap steeler Darick Campbell and guitarist Phillip Campbell, stand poised to bring their roof-raising praise music far beyond the borders of the House of God community. With their unquestioned instrumental mastery, strong family bond and new John Medeski produced album, the Campbell Brothers are bringing their music and spirit to ever widening audiences.

Their music takes its unique flavor from the blending of two steel guitars. “Both of them are primary band-lead instruments,” explains Phillip. “Normally you only have one steel in any band. The Campbell Brothers are unique in that you have two steels. You have the lap and the pedal steel so you’re almost seeing the progression of sacred steel on stage when you’re seeing the
Campbell Brothers.”

Darick plays the lap steel, which has six or eight strings (eight on his) and utilizes a metal bar sliding along the strings to create its distinctive tone. Darick blends sweet sliding melismas, toe-curling bent notes and throbbing, percussive strums to create a frenzy of sound. Chuck is a groundbreaking champion of the pedal steel, a later development of the same instrument which has more strings as well as pedals and knee levers to change the pitch of the strings while playing. In the right hands, these are some of the most evocative, soulful instruments around. Outside of sacred steel, they haven’t usually been associated with African-American music, but more often with Hawaiian and country music. The Campbell Brothers’ sound comes straight from the African American gospel tradition, and their steels call out like sanctified shouts of praise. Their music is hard-hitting and direct, using driving church rhythms and inspired virtuosity to bring the spirit to the listener. Spiritual uplifting is always the goal of their performances.

“That’s what we view the music as because this is our tradition of praise and the way that we celebrate the goodness of God,” states Phillip. “We look at it as, if we can give that to other people and enable them to partake in that same uplifting we get from church, then we think we’re doing
something positive.”

By taking their music beyond the church, the Campbell Brothers are part of the first wave of sacred steelers to bring their sound into the realm of secular music. Robert Randolph, whose first steel was purchased with help from and set up by Chuck, has already made big noise with his incredible, church-honed pedal steel chops. Randolph’s entrance into the jam band world was facilitated in part by Medeski, who teamed him with members of the North Mississippi All-Stars for the album The Word. While some might find it puzzling that music derived so directly from a church tradition would be embraced by the jam band scene, Phillip sees it as a natural fit.

“Chuck once asked what’s the definition of jam band? And the definition we got was that it’s when musicians play a song and yet you could hear it two different nights in a row and it would still be taken to a different place each night. That’s really what the sacred steel tradition is because every Sunday the same songs, pretty much, are sung. Yet it’s the sacred steeler’s job to play those songs and take them to a different place so they don’t sound stale. You can imagine year after year of playing and yet keeping the music fresh, you’ve got to bring something different to the table.”

One of the things the Campbell Brothers bring to the table is a high level of technical ability and musical innovation. By looking to the future they are carrying on a core element of their musical tradition. Willie Eason, the father of sacred steel, was on the cutting edge when he began using an amplified steel guitar in church in the 1930s. Electric lap steels pre-date electric guitars, but in the ’30s the lap steel was the newest thing in musical technology, the first instrument to use electricity in producing its sound. According to the Campbells, Eason and Lorenzo Harrison, another early master of the style, were both avid tech-heads and worked on, and in Harrison’s case constructed, their own equipment.

Chuck Campbell is acknowledged as one of the great modern innovators of sacred steel. In the early ’70s he was the first to successfully apply the broader capabilities of the pedal steel to the style, which had been dominated by lap players until then. He was also the first to play complex chord structures on a steel in sacred steel, taking harmonic cues from Phillip’s affinity for Return to Forever and Jaco Pastorius. He also developed a system of tuning that he has taught to many younger players, including Randolph. His contribution to the music was honored with a NEA Heritage Fellowship grant in 2004, placing his name alongside many stalwarts of American arts.

Another Fellowship recipient that night was dobro grand-master Jerry Douglas, who jammed with the Campbell Brothers backstage. Along with Douglas, the Campbells have been crossing musical paths with the likes of Derek Trucks, the Allman Brothers Band, Steve Gadd, Medeski and other prominent players. These musicians are sharing inspiration with the Campbells, and Chuck asserts: “All these guys that you see in the forefront of music and touring, they’re no joke. Trust me, they’re no joke. It’s amazing, so you can’t help but be influenced, to the point that I actually lent Derek Trucks one of my steels so he’s picking up some pedal steel licks. I’m trying to pick up some slide licks.”

In addition to getting to interact with great musicians from different styles, the Campbell Brothers are also spending more time on the road playing theaters and festivals. They were particularly excited about their upcoming trip to New Orleans.

“It’s a very big deal,” say Phillip. “It’s a very big honor to be even invited to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. The list is always a Who’s Who, so just to be counted in that company is always a big deal. We get lots of cool points among everyone that knows us here in our hometown [Rochester, New York] and all around for just being invited. And we’re, looking forward not only the Jazz Fest, but even to play at Rosy’s Jazz Hall. That’s going to be another setting where it’ll be a lot more intimate, it’ll be a whole different vibe in the club.”

With so many new doors opening and the possibilities for sacred steel expanding exponentially, after its seven decades of incubation in church, the essence of what the Campbell Brothers are going for remains unchanged.

“Getting to that spiritual place,” is what Chuck calls it. “And that’s what we’re sharing with not only audiences, but I think we’re more popular with musicians than with audiences, if you will. [After hearing the Campbell Brothers] a lot of musicians say ‘Hey I’m going to go a little further into my spirituality and let go a little bit more,’ because I think the main thing we project is that letting go of oneself and just letting it all hang out in the music.”

The Campbell Brothers perform on Sunday, April 24, at the Jazz Festival’s Blues Tent at 2:50 p.m.

Legendary Memphis singer Rufus Thomas, who died this past December 15th at the age of 84, was the originator of the Funky Chicken, the World’s Oldest Teenager, and the Crown Prince Of Dance. But despite his notable and influential contributions to funk, soul, and R&B, Thomas began and ended his musical career firmly planted in the blues.

Rufus was born in Cayce, Mississippi, merely 36 miles from Memphis, a geographical placement that would have much to do with the future of his music. Like any number of his Depression-era peers, he found the region a less than kind place for African-Americans, and migrated quickly to Memphis, and the music epicenter thereof. “Beale Street,” he was known to say, “was a black man’s haven.” By the time he reached manhood, Thomas had established himself there as a tap-dancer, singer, and comedian with the Rabbit Foot Minstrels. He was also becoming well-known for his talent shows—he was one of the first to present B.B. King, Bobby “Blue” Bland, and Ike Turner on a stage—and as a disc jockey on Memphis’ legendary WDIA, a blues dynamo that was sometimes referred to as “The Mother Station Of The Negroes.”

Although he recorded sporadically throughout the ’40s, his first taste of success came with the then-nascent Sun Records; giving Sam Phillips’ label its first national hit with his 1953 recording of “Bear Cat.” A musical response to Big Mama Thornton’s “Hound Dog,” it rocketed to Number Three. Later that year he followed up with “Tiger Man,” which so impressed a young truck driver named Elvis Presley that he would later torch it on stage during his 1968 comeback TV special. After Elvis’ ascent, Rufus felt that Phillips was ignoring black artists in favor of black ones, and before long Thomas had jumped ship to a small label known as Satellite, where he recorded the 1960 duet “Cause I Love You” with his daughter, Carla. Another smash, it gave the label—soon to be renamed Stax—the incentive to sign more regional soul artists.

Carla went on to enjoy success with solo singles, and Rufus kept plugging along, as well, helping to define the signature Stax sound with the immortal “Walking The Dog” in 1963. The song’s blend of greasy blues and proto-funk bottom inspired a new English R&B group named the Rolling Stones to cover it on their first album. By the early ’70s, Rufus was working a commercially successful stone funk-blues groove with outrageously hilarious dance singles like “Do the Funky Chicken,” “(Do The) Push And Pull” and “The Breakdown.”

The rise of disco in the late-’70s killed a good many soul careers, but Thomas pressed on, despite the fact that he was edging past 60 years of age; he continued to please crowds with his genial showmanship. He became one of Memphis’ elder R&B statesmen, performing at the city’s Blues and Heritage Festival, playing Stax reunions, continuing to host his WDIA radio show, raising money for local charities, and regaling fans with stories of Beale Street’s glory days. He recorded sporadically, sticking to a straight blues groove (but continuing to perform his soul hits in concert).

Propers finally began to be given late in life: a birthday tribute at Memphis’ Orpheum Theater, a cameo in Jim Jarmusch’s Mystery Train, three lifetime achievement awards (including the first one ever given by ASCAP), and the W.C. Handy Howlin’ Wolf Award. In 1998, he was finally made part of Beale Street itself with a renaming of one of its cross-streets, and just this past year he was inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame. Perhaps what’s most amazing about Rufus’ long life is its “Forrest Gump” like quality—for a genial, unassuming man who made what were essentially a lot of novelty singles, he sure made a hell of a lot of wheels turn. (Thomas is survived by two children and a granddaughter; the family asks that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to The Rufus Thomas Scholarship Fund, 1900 Union Ave., Memphis, TN 38104.)

Grammy Nominations

Another old R&B mainstay, Ike Turner, is enjoying his own renaissance right about now, and his status as a reemerging blues performer has just been solidified with a Grammy nod for best Traditional Blues Album for his latest, Here And Now. The nominations were announced January 4th, and Turner is a good bet to win his category, although there are some other worthy nominees, most notably James Blood Ulmer for his Memphis Blood – The Sun Sessions CD. Of the rest, Maria Muldaur’s Richland Woman Blues is fine, both Jimmie Vaughan’s Do You Get The Blues? and Kim Wilson’s “Smokin ‘ Joint” are tight but unremarkable, and the Robert Johnson tribute CD, Hellhound On My Trail, is spotty at best. Look for Ike to win—and God help us all if he gets to deliver his speech on camera.

New Orleans’ own Dr. John is nominated in the other blues category (Best Contemporary Album), but that’s typical Grammy name-recognition thinking. How do you fit the Nite Tripper into one box, anyway? Buddy Guy’sSweet Tea is the most daring and daringly successful nominee, and would be a great choice, but the statuette will more than likely go to the more mellow, adult-contemporary blues found on our own Keb’ Mo’s The Door. A fine CD, to be sure, but let’s hope he doesn’t turn completely Clapton on us. Of the other nominees, Etta James’ Matriarch Of The Blues proves her as just that, while Delbert McClinton’s outstanding Nothing Personal album would be better suited to a Country Album nod. However, considering that category is cluttered with the likes of Tim McGraw and Diamond Rio, perhaps we should leave him where we found him.

Acoustic blues legend and transplanted local Corey Harris is pulling up stakes, however, moving from Alligator to Rounder; the equally legendary roots music label that’s just signed him to a multi-album deal. Such a move seems to indicate that Harris is about to expand his style, and, indeed, advance word on his 2002 release, Downhome Sophisticate, is that it will combine all flavors of American rusticana into a uniquely Corey sound. At any rate, Rounder has an untouchable reputation as an artists’ label that encourages creativity, so it’ll be interesting to see what, exactly, unfolds.

Spring is just around the corner, even if it doesn’t feel like it, and with it the musical festival season will start to ramp up as well. Prepare yourself this month by taking in some local blues—Joe Krown’s Organ Combo will be at Le Bon Temps on the 11th, and Dr. John will be taking his glittery whatever it is out to Spanish Plaza on the 2nd. B.B. King wraps up his recent local appearances at Generations Hall on the 1st, and at the other end of the spectrum, Southern blues-rock freakout kings Gov’t Mule play a pair of dates at the House Of Blues on the 8th and 9th. If you’d like something with just a little more soul, the Nevilles will also do two dates at the HOB this month—11th and 14th—while Percy Sledge keeps tearing out hearts at the Boomtown Casino on the Westbank (Feb. 14).

Finally, if you’re tired of being on the wrong end of the stage, buy a cheap guitar and check out Blues Website of the Month: the Swing and Jump Blues Guitar page at swingblues.com. It’s nothing less than a complete online instruction book on proper jump blues string slinging, and it’s entirely free. Years in the making, philosophical as well as technical, and easy for blues dummies, it’s the kind of community resource the web was originally designed to provide. Best of all, it encourages you to feel the blues first, and understand it later. After all, isn’t that how you first fell in love with it?