October 20, 2008

Music Mondays: Lovin’ Me Some Blues

 

 Mannish Boy [2:57m]: Play Now | Play in Popup

Back in June I rode the bus up to Minneapolis for a regional swing exchange. During the week-end, they had two dance contests, one for Swing and one for Blues. A live band was playing during the evening of the Blues contest and all night up until the contest, they played fast uptempo swingin’ music. Then the Blues contest happened, and I finally got to hear some Blues. There were three or four rounds in the contest, after which the band went right back to playing swing. My girlfriends and I looked at each other after it was all over and even though the band was still playing, we said, “We’re done.”

We’d gotten the blues dancing that we wanted and were ready to go home and change for the late-night dance.

It was an instructive moment for me. I’d started out my dance obsession by going to Lindy-Hop exchanges… week-end long dance events that went until early in the morning. Then I ended up at a Lindy/Blues exchange in St. Louis, where they played a good mix. But the late night dance was always blues and it was always the best dancing of the night.

When I arrived back in Chicago at 2am after an eight-hour megabus ride from Minneapolis, I hailed the first cab I saw. I just didn’t have the patience to walk to the El and ride the train home. My cabbie was an old black man who greeted me real friendly like.

“How you doin’ tonight?”
“Oh I’m pretty good. Glad to be back home.”
“You go somewhere on vacation?”
“I just went out of town for a dance week-end.”
He brightened up.
“Oh! You a dancer? My daughter is a dancer. Boy she sho’ does dance good.”
“Really?” I asked. “That’s cool. What kind of dancing does she do?”
“Oh I don’ know what they call it. She dance wid a partner.”
“That’s what I do.”
“Oh yeah? What kinda dancin’ do you do?”
“I’m a Swing and Blues Dancer.”
“Blues Dancin’? Now what is that?”
I often get this question and it makes me smile. Especially when a black man from Chicago, who probably loves Blues music asks this question.
“It’s partner dancing to Blues music.”
“You don’t say? I didn’ know you could partner dance to Blues music.”
“You sure can.”
Then his voice took on a  warm nostalgic feel.
“Boy I just loves me the Blues. It just gets to ya.”
“I know what you mean.”
“No matter if you feel good or you got the Blues, the Blues just gets right to ya. I don’ know what it is. But I just loves me the Blues.”
“I hear that.”
“Hmmmmm….” He made a sound like he was eatin’ fried chicken.
“I was in a Blues Dance contest this week-end, and after the contest was over, I didn’t care about dancing to swing music anymore. I just wanted to hear the Blues.”
“Ohhh Yes. I know what you mean. But sometimes those Blues records can get you into trouble.”
I laughed in agreement. He continued.
“I know my wife took one a my BB King Records and broke it! I jes’ know she did!”
We both laughed.

As he pulled off of 90/94 onto North Avenue, we cruised toward Wicker Park.

“You ever go to any Blues clubs in town?” I asked.
“Oh sometime I go over to the Checkerboard.”
“I heard they opened it up in a new spot.”
“Yeah.” He sounded sad. “It’s not like it used ta be.”
“I heard that too.”

As we passed through the North/Damen/Milwaukee intersection, nicknamed by one of my friends, “The Sweaty Crotch,” he remarked,
“Boy they fixed this part o’ town up real good.”
“Yeah, that’s what I hear.”

We barreled towards Humboldt park.
“What part of town do you live in?” I asked.
“Oh, I live down by 86th Street.”
“Wow. Way down there.”
“Time was, you wouldn’t come up here. Oh no! This used to be a real bad part a town. No way you could pay me to come through here! But they fixed it up real good. It’s real nice now.”

I laughed, thinking how I always feel a little depressed when I leave a nice Chicago neighborhood and enter my own which seems filthy with litter, and has vagrants hanging out on the sidewalk, and kids playing in the street with an old stick and an empty pepsi bottle and arguing late at nights about whatever it is that poor depressed people argue about in the street.

He dropped me off and said goodbye, bidding me to be careful and to have a good night. I loved that cabbie. I could have sat at a bar next to him all night, sipping on whiskey, listening to a blues band and talking about life.

And that’s why I love the blues. Because even though I’m a white girl from the west coast, I’ve got something in common with an old black man from the South Side of Chicago. We both loves us some Blues.