This should be the best of times for Buddy Guy. Plenty of fans and reviewers agree that he's the greatest bluesman above ground -- and his still-vital artistry remains an inspiration to his fellow performers as well. Last year, Guy was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame by two of the blues' most famous practitioners: B.B. King, a player he emulated in his youth, and Eric Clapton, who told the luminaries in attendance, "Buddy was for me what Elvis was for other people."
Nevertheless, Guy, who just celebrated his seventieth birthday, is singing the blues offstage as well as on. He's preoccupied by the uncertain future of Buddy Guy's Legends, arguably the most prominent surviving blues club in Chicago, and he acknowledges feeling frustrated about the sales of his most recent albums, which bear the marks of extensive record-company fiddling. The folks at his label, Silvertone, a division of the massive Zomba Music Group, want his discs to feature lotsa pop-oriented material and loads o' guest stars willing to trade name recognition for a chance to sit in with Guy. He went along for last year's Bring 'Em In, which contained covers of "Lay Lady Lay" and "I Put a Spell on You," not to mention appearances by Keith Richards, Carlos Santana and more. But Silvertone didn't pony up for the cost of a video (the company last did so for "Some Kind of Wonderful," a 1993 duet with Paul Rodgers) and failed to get news of the release to those people most able to spread the word.
"I sell my records in my club," Guy points out, "and I had a disc jockey come in and say, 'When are you going to put out something new?' Well, my last record has been out a year -- and anytime a disc jockey doesn't know it's out, you know what kind of promotion they've been doing." An instant later, he says, "My record company's been doing the best they can. It's one of the biggest in the world. But if they're not going to play it, what can you do?"
With the Robert Cray Band and Blind Boys of Alabama, noon Saturday, August 19, Denver Botanic Gardens at Chatfield, 8500 Deer Creek Canyon Road, $45-$50, all ages, www.ticketweb.com
For Guy, the answer is simple: Hit the stage and start belting, no matter how difficult the circumstances. "A lot of musicians ask me,'What do I have to do to get out there like you?' And I say, 'You have to suffer like I did.' I went out there many nights and didn't get nothin'. I had to walk back." He laughs as he adds, "Thank goodness I can ride back now. I've been blessed with that."
This last remark qualifies as braggadocio for Guy, who remains as modest about his own talents as he was ten years ago, during his last conversation with Westword ("No Regular Guy," April 18, 1996). He continues to be critical of his unpredictable but emotionally intense singing: "Think about Bobby Bland, B.B. King, Lou Rawls -- all those guys with so much more voice control than I have." As for his guitar playing, he emphasizes that "I'm still learning, even at this age, and I still have my ears open, listening for somebody to hit a note I don't know. I hear it and think, ŒI'd like to steal a little bit from that.'"
His willingness to do so has kept him in the game, Guy believes. "I'm on the ball club," he says, "and they wouldn't have me on the ball club if I wasn't producing something. But I'm in the outfield with Willie Mays, if you remember who that was. So I'm catching the ball, but I'm also getting a chance to watch him catch the ball. And Jesus Christ, that man could catch a ball."
Guy's mighty good with his hands, too. Born into a family of sharecroppers in 1936 Louisiana, he eventually got his mitts on an acoustic guitar that gave him an outlet for the sounds in his head. Before long, he was supplementing income generated as a janitor at Louisiana State University with coin earned by performing in local bands. His love of the blues drew him to Chicago, the northern nexus of the style, but, he insists, "I didn't come here to be a professional musician. I was just looking for a day job that paid me more than I was getting at LSU."
Instead, a scorching guitar duel with soloist supreme Otis Rush brought him to the attention of Muddy Waters, who served as his mentor at Chess Records, an imprint then at its height of power. Guy went on to record for Chess and several other imprints, and left behind some truly seminal vinyl. Particularly impressive were the platters he made with harmonicat Junior Wells, including 1965's astonishing Hoodoo Man Blues and 1972's Buddy Guy and Junior Wells Play the Blues, which received the deluxe reissue treatment last year from Rhino Handmade. Even so, Guy wasn't to experience full-scale stardom until 1991, when Damn Right, I've Got the Blues, his first album for Silvertone, caused listeners outside the circle of blues fanatics to belatedly realize what they'd been missing. But while the disc won a Grammy as the year's best blues album, its blend of familiar material ("Mustang Sally" turns up) and superstar drop-ins by the likes of Clapton, Jeff Beck and Mark Knopfler soon ossified into a formula that Silvertone has relied upon ever since. Slippin' In, a terrific 1994 CD that's mainly cameo-free, is the most striking exception to this rule, and Guy wouldn't mind trying something like it again down the line. He's in the planning stages for another disc, and he says, "I'm writing some, and I really want to be creative on the next album -- if they give me the opportunity to do that."
Finding the time to come up with original stuff won't be easy considering the situation at Legends. Guy doesn't own the property, which was recently donated to nearby Columbia College. As a result, he says, "I've got to move it by this time next year." Columbia doesn't want to be seen as bullying Guy -- in fact, the school gave him an honorary degree a few months back -- and he's got support from no less a personage than Chicago's mayor, Richard M. Daley. "He told me personally, ŒI want you to stay in the South Loop,'" Guy says. "They say I've been a big tourist attraction and it's good for the city." Problem is, "I don't have hundreds of thousands of dollars to invest in a building. I spent my last savings to open this one, and I'm seventy years old now. If I spend my last savings again to go into another building, well, you can't make that kind of money back at my age."
The bluesman is equally concerned about a newly approved smoking ordinance that will outlaw puffing in stand-alone bars and taverns come 2008. "I had a guy say to me the other day, ŒWhat's a beer without a cigarette?'" he recalls. "That law is really going to hurt us." Likewise, he feels that increasingly vigilant DUI enforcement will take its toll when Legends moves from its current location: "I'm by the biggest Hilton in Chicago, and when they have conventions, those are my best nights, because people can just walk in off the street. They'll get you for driving under the influence, but they don't usually get you for walking under the influence."
Given all these worries, it's fortunate that Guy's daughter Shawnna is doing so well. She's a rapper and Ludacris protegé, and for her latest Def Jam disc, Block Music, she recruited her father to lay down some licks on a couple of songs -- most notably, one called "Chicago." Involving him in her music represents a change. After all, Guy reveals, "She didn't want me to hear what kind of lyrics they were singing."
Not that the language would have bothered him. "Some of those old blues cats had that stuff years ago, singing those nasty lyrics," he says. "But you could only do that in the club; they wouldn't record it. Now, with these hip-hoppers making millions and millions of dollars, maybe I should go into the studio and sing one of those old songs with the nasty words. Maybe I'd get some airplay."
If that happened, these would truly be the best of times for Buddy Guy.
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