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Lovin' the Blues South LA
Style
Dress up and hustle down to our city's south side to wake up your soul. Gut bucket blues is what you'll hear. What you'll feel is the vibe of real blues for sure. Just about every night in South Los Angeles, blues musicians are testing their chops at public clubs or private juke joints. At either venue, blues in South LA is an enthusiastic, competitive, extemporaneous event. Start your adventure at Babe
and Ricky's. The oldest blues club in Los Angeles is the senior
member in Leimert Park's hip neighborhood of art galleries, live
theatre, and poetry cafes. Jam sessions on Monday night come
complete with fried chicken. A community security guard will
greet you at the heavy door lacquered with photos of blues legends.
Neon-lit beer signs and the glowing juke box light up the hand-written,
"$8 Cover," on the little round table just inside the
entrance. "I'm ready for ya'll's 20's," 84 year-old
Mama Laura Gross announces with a knowing smile as she wipes
her finger on a damp sponge and counts twelve singles into your
hand. Now that you've been amply supplied with singles, the "TIPS FOR THE BAND," scrawled in red marker on a plastic cat food container perched atop a speaker, takes on new meaning. The Monday night progression at Babe and Ricky's has been the same for forty years. Each musician arrives, hugs Mama, heads straight to the kitchen, pungent with the aroma of slow-cooked greens, takes his instrument out of its case, and leans it against the wall amid culinary equipment and janitorial supplies.. Then he (occasionally she) takes the clipboard off one of the red leather booths and signs up to play. Tony Ibarra, the twenty-one year veteran jam leader on Monday nights, works off the list, calling out names, combining the necessary players and singers into makeshift, frequently mixed-ethnic, bands. When Eric Clapton, Keb Mo, Bobby Blue Bland and BB King show up, signing the clip board isn't mandatory. Tony heard blues on the radio for the first time in Mexico in the 1950's. His brown eyes gleam as he recalls the moment. "It went into my insides. The blues changed my life." At 10:30 a dapper, elderly waif of a man, with the help of two musicians, bring pans of greens, potato salad, and black-eyed peas from the kitchen. Forming a line under his watchful supervision, the customers serve themselves within inches of the continuing jam. Then each appears before Mama for the bestowing of the single plump drumstick and fritter. One afternoon Mama Laura was counting the till while watching a mother and daughter argue about body piercing on the TV above the bar. She shared her mission to the young musicians coming up. "I tell each one; the guitar needs to be his wife." She pointed out the photos of the great old players who'd played her jams since 1964. "They need to listen to the older musicians, be humble, pay attention." Public venues on the south side don't book bands for individual gigs. Most clubs have a house band with special guests scheduled for the evening. Jamming with the band is common. When a musician is recognized in the audience, his name is mentioned. Nodding is a signal of intent to play. Ignoring the acknowledgement informs the band leader that tonight's just for hanging-out. The Living Room's faded sign on Crenshaw is easy to miss. Although both the front and rear entrance have door bells, Sunday night regulars know to park in the lot behind the club and ring from there. A person, not a buzzer, opens the door to down home hospitality. While ordering a beer, the waitress invites you to serve yourself vegetable soup from the crock pot opposite the bright red bar. The music gets going, and Hollis Gilmore's sax begins to flirt with Micky Champion's provocative solos. Over 60 years of singing and she still can do it without a mike. As she snakes her way down the narrow club to customers chilling on the couch at the back, her hands are free to motion suggestively and collect dollar bills. |
Upscale La Louisianne lies west of Crenshaw near Ladera Heights. A security guard helps find parking in the busy lot off Slausen. Get there early for fried chicken with red beans and rice for a dollar or two. Joe Kincaid and his Soul Brothers with Duffy Glenn play polished blues-infused funk and R&B for the young crowd sipping Long Island Iced Teas. Singer Sonny Green is a frequent special guest. The Pure Pleasure Lounge on Manchester is the home of local bluesman, Choo Choo and His Lovely Band. Announcing, "We play the blues for love," Choo Choo hosts a festive time, calling up a myriad of locals, including, singers Sherry Pruitt and Fereckiea and guitarist Jaimie Powell. Pure Pleasure's manager gets in the act with an original song celebrating the club's history. A recent Hawaiian-themed birthday party began with numerous mid-life regulars unloading casseroles and salads from cars out front while waiting for the guy with the key to show up. Once the midnight dinner was stowed in the back room, plastic leis were selected to enhance snug-fitting dresses in various reds and chartreuse. Men in high-gloss royal blues and purple did the same. A broad rimmed white felt hat was matched with a necklace of white. Couples danced; groups of women did the slide in hip-swaying tandem. Finally everyone lined up at the luau spread of soul food. Choo Choo, exhausted and glistening with perspiration after a three hour set, beamed while loading his plate. He verbalized his delight in long sessions - it must be love. Passion for the blues permeates
the South LA experience. Although certainly competitive, musicians
describe a good vibe when they jam at any of the public clubs
or private gatherings. Each player's unique sound mixes it up
with the brothers. Feelings, riffs, and energy combine in moments
that can never repeat themselves. He is of the opinion that South LA blues are going through a rebirth and are on the increase. Throughout the south side, players are dead serious about the whole dynamic of the blues, the music as well as the lifestyle. As Dr. Hank puts it, "The blues ain't no joke. The simplicity is what makes it so elusive. The blues isn't the notes, but the way you play." He continues with thoughts about the traditional bluesman, "Being a black man is not always easy. We got to suck it up and keep on steppin.' And that's why we got the blues." Even fans get serious. One evening following a particularly soulful slow blues number, a patron with that independent-business-owner look turned to a stranger at her table and bluntly offered the opinion that suffering is a blues prerequisite. Her eyes misted, "If you haven't been to the crossroads, you can't understand the blues." When the beat picks up, audiences get caught in the changing groove, calling to the singer, clapping and dancing. Musicians also get rowdy. At VFW Hall 2122 near La Brea, you might find emcee Hurricane, dressed to the nines, gyrating atop one of the long tables. Far south on Central Avenue, The Family Room draws its regulars for the Laker's game, fast-spirited blues shuffles and chicken wings fried fresh to order. Nearby is the Watts Labor Community Action Committee headquarters. On the last Friday of the month, its Bones and Blues draws big crowds for headliners the likes of Linda Hopkins, Ernie Andrews, and Phyllis Battle. Although ribs are available, bones refer to the animated domino matches in the hall's foyer. If your interest is a private
juke joint, ask around at the clubs. A sincere blues vibe will
get you directions to established locations where blues lovers
and musicians join together to "juke." |
Each private juke joint has its own personality, but spirited camaraderie is a common feature. Cactus and flowers grow in a little square of dirt in front of Wade's store-front atelier. The cooking area is lined with at least fifty bottles of hot sauce. Photos of blues friends, a school map of the United States, and a five-foot white circle painted with the words, "Blues with the Inclination to Play Jazz," decorate the wall above the day bed. Wade's drum set and excellent sound equipment fill the other half of the space. The One Bone Band comes together on Thursday evenings to eat, play music, and talk. Conversations are animated, taking on the waxing and waning of a blues progression. Wade takes center stage when he delivers his passionate discourse on social history and theory. His full white beard and unruly gray afro reinforce the persona, "Shaman of the South Side." Bell's Senior Blues Garage smokes on the last Sunday of the month with some awe-inspiring old-timers. After retiring from running his service station on Imperial Highway, Bell got serious about the drums in the mid-80's, touring extensively with Harmonica Fats. He's come home to his little bungalow's garage with its stage encircled in tiny lights. Joe has hosted get-togethers, his personal term for juke joints, for over thirty years since migrating from Alabama. Musicians have come to fourteen South LA intersections to join together wherever his juke spot reincarnated. His entrepreneurial endeavors: auto parts, auto service, liquor store, ice cream parlor, junk yard, have never failed to draw blues lovers coming to listen to blues radio and the musicians who would inevitably start to jam. Joe's shy demeanor does not presage the musical prowess with which he coaxes sounds from Little Lucie, his beloved guitar. Hundreds of friends and musicians converged at Joe's junk yard for an entire weekend this year to honor him and his contributions to blues on the south side. Entering through the chain link gate, they stepped around shower doors, hair dryer consoles, toilet bowls, and bicycles. Flames, cresting a barrel's rusted rim, greeted them as they made their way. On most nights they would have seen dominoes and pool cues in action and heard much jawing around the fire. On the party weekend all focus was on the stage. Non-stop blues woke up the night. The Duke of Earl was there. Mr. Express Yourself, Charles Wright, and the Watts 103rd Street Band went all out in honor of Joe. Their trombone and trumpet took the blues horn sound up a couple of notches from the typical single sax. The musicians on the south side are as diverse as the venues, ranging from teen-age novices to octogenarians seeped in tradition. Some experience wide recognition. South Side Slim, with five CD's, took his beloved blues training ground for his stage name. Recipient of the 2004 Los Angeles Weekly's Music Award for Best Contemporary Blues Artist, forty-something Slim jams at the clubs and juke joints as often as he can. He conjures up a competitive scene in "The Jam."
("The Jam," Trouble on the South Side. Produced by Henry Harris aka South Side Slim, Manifest Promotion, 2004.) Juke-joint blues events are beginning to migrate from the south side's treasure trove to other parts of the city. Harris, the owner of Masquers Cabaret in West Hollywood, was itching to host a blues jam. "I've been wanting to bring traditional blues back into my club. When South Side Slim and I became friends, I found the essence I was looking for." Now Slim and his cronies have come north to do some jammin' and jukin' South LA style. |
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