By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
Despite sharing a roof with such an obsessive caretaker, however, Wells himself doesn't seem browbeaten. "There's only one thing that I feel is real important that you should know about me," he confides, "and that's that I'm very happy. And I'm a proud man that I've been doing something that I love. Don't nothing come by one night. Don't nobody owe you nothing. You owe yourself something--and if you know that, you should go out there and do it if you possibly can. It's going to be some work that you have to do, but if you do it, you'll appreciate it even more."
Although Wells speaks from experience, the specifics of his early life remain a bit fuzzy. That he was born in Memphis, Tennessee, is not in dispute, but his birth name is: A number of blues reference books alternately dub him Amos Wells Jr. or Amos Junior Wells. According to Wells, these tomes are wrong: He says his original moniker was Amos Blakemore.
Young Amos picked up a harmonica for the first time at age twelve, just prior to his family's move to Chicago. Thanks to tips he wrangled from a pair of elder harp pros (Herman "Junior" Parker and Rice Miller, aka Sonny Boy Williamson II), he soon became a very good player--so good, in fact, that he made his professional debut alongside guitarists Louis and Dave Meyers when he was only fourteen. Four years later, in 1952, Wells was picked by Muddy Waters to replace departing harmonicat Little Walter in his band. The pace maintained by Waters and his accompanists was hectic from the start, but Wells didn't mind. As he notes, "I've always wanted to do this. I've never had a job in my life. This is what I love."
The Waters connection soon gave Wells the opportunity to record a number of sides under his own name. Several of the songs he cut between 1953 and 1956, including "Hoodoo Man," "Junior's Wail," "So All Alone" and "Lawdy! Lawdy!," remain blues favorites, as do the first of his many collaborations with Buddy Guy, which also date from this period. Rumors have long circulated that Wells went into the studio with Guy during periods when he was absent without leave from the Army. Wells reluctantly concedes that these whispers are true.
"I went into the service, and I didn't like it," he elaborates, a hint of lingering bitterness coloring his voice. "I wasn't used to nobody telling me when to go to bed and when to get up, or when to eat. They were telling me that I couldn't just walk across the yard, and they had us running all the time. They kept telling me that I had to run, and they were calling me 'soldier' and saying they were going to make a soldier out of me. And that pissed me off. I just told them, 'Man, I'm not no soldier. I'm a musician.' It wasn't my scene. I couldn't deal with it. So I kept running off AWOL.
"Finally," Wells goes on, "they tried to trump up a charge on me, and they did--they was going to give me so many years, they said. But they wound up giving me four months and sixteen days--just long enough to process me out of the service with a dishonorable discharge."
Of course, Wells wasn't exactly heartsick over the ruling that stripped him of his uniform. He notes that at the time of his expulsion, he was on the cusp of getting out of his commitment for health reasons. "It was because of where I got chopped in the head with an ax when I was little," he says offhandedly. "My mom's cousin's old man and her was in a fight, and he had an ax, and they were wrestling around the room where I was laying in bed. And I got chopped in the head. It wasn't really that bad--but it was enough that it was going to get me that medical discharge until the other problem came up."
For Wells, the stain of his ignominious departure from the Army was wiped out for all time in 1966, when he headlined a U.S. State Department-sponsored tour of Africa. "After that, I did a whole bunch more things for them," he boasts. "I went to Africa twice and Southeast Asia and a bunch of other places. Now, when I got my dishonorable discharge, they said I was never supposed to put my feet on government property anymore. And here I was being hired by them. It just goes to show you--that dishonorable discharge didn't do no good."