You have to know the street to sing blues.
Cathy Lemons
Suitcase Part 1
We would talk into the darkness, the hollow tin cup of darkness, our voices like pennies thrown into a dank tunnel. Secrets rolled, hissed and reverberated down into the hollow bowels of endless cells. San Bruno County Jail in 1989 was like an ancient catacomb. Before they made it all into one big dormitory, there were just two sides of 12 rooms, separated by a long steely hall. Iron rooms, iron halls, tiny perfect cages for secrets to be passed.
I could no longer destroy myself. A judge had stayed my hand. And my brilliant short friend, Deborah Ellstat, had also been temporarily spared. So we talked about Deborah Ellstat's uncle, David.
This is her true story about her uncle and his suitcase.
Keep Steppin’
My advice to young women that want to sing blues is this: don’t ever let anyone ever tell you what you can and can’t do. Don’t ever let people stop you from your dream. Just roll. And get as many skills as you can.
Sweet (Part I)
To watch Ron charm a southern old lady behind a jewelry counter was something to behold.
We all three, me a Texas homespun slender brunette, Donald, a fat handsome Arab, and Ron, a long, lean sweet talker waltzed into a Dallas mall, one of those huge, refrigerated, endless, underground worlds, and go to work. Ron wore a suit, his tie skewed off to the side. He swept his blonde hair back with both hands and settled his eyes on which victim. It would not matter. All the old ladies loved him. We stared down into a sea of glittering wonder: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires--all behind a long glass case. “Oh let me see that one,” Ron said, pointing to a giant rock set on a shiny band. The lady with her slow southern way, took her key from a small Styrofoam cup and opened up the glass cage. Brought out the ring like a big smiling surprise. “Sweet!” Ron said with a slight whistle between his teeth. He motioned for Donald and me to come over. My boyfriend's fat stomach practically rested on the glass counter. “Well? Which one should I get her?” He said.
John Lee Hooker and The Ra Ra Rolling Stone (Part II)
I was 8 blocks from Hooker’s house. I was wedged in between 2 black giants inside a red Cadillac that was being washed by swooshing brushes on all sides. I can still see the swirling soapy circles clouding up everything around us—making us feel safe.
We were crouched down dividing up our cocaine and heroin into 3 rigs and concentrating a great deal. Heavy breathing. There was a negotiation—no one being particularly generous—but then again as it goes, for addicts, we did very well.
“I don’t care about the cocaine. I just need the heroin, guys. Wa wa wait now—I don’t think that’s gonna get me straight now. Ah ah ah. I’ll take that.”
We shuffled various powders into bottle caps—used melted ice from a Burger King cup for the water--and cotton from a cigarette. 3 rigs. We measured.
“Fair?” Said the thinner giant.
“Fair enough.” Said the fatter one.
John Lee Hooker and The Ra Ra Rolling Stone (Part I)
It all begins with an idea.
Michael Bari Parts I & II
From New York City. Connected—to “the Corporation.” His father a soldier. The word was that Michael Bari had shot his wife. She was a junkie and it was her or him. So he chose her. A strange, blonde, tall man—angular—with a cold face and the coldest of blue eyes. Not handsome. Not ugly. Most compelling. He stayed up in his tower apartment and dealt to all the hard core junkies in the TL. He was at the top of the pyramid.
And he was always being watched.
When I first met Michael Bari I had just come back from an expensive drug program in Sedona Arizona—a famous one. Both of my parents had paid for it. Before I made the journey, I was down to 115 pounds. My normal weight is 136. I was only able to keep milk down. By the time my mother found me, I was living in a broken down hotel room deep in the Tenderloin—emaciated—addicted to meth amphetamine, cocaine, and heroin. Turning tricks. Dying.
Down for the Count
I had a red scar that started in the center of my cheek and stretched down all the way to my chin. The other women on the crowded 6th floor of the jail were whispering that I had some strange disease and that they should stay away from me. I did indeed. It was a dis-ese with everything I came in contact with.
For the first time in my life I was ugly. For the first time in my life I could not use my looks to get through it. For the first time in my life nobody wanted to fuck me. For the first time I was free.
I was lying on a small blue mat on the floor of the jail. There were all these women camped out on all sides of me. Everything was in rows: the windows to my right overlooking Bryant Street, the white barred cells to my left, the guards in their chairs in front. And then there was my group--the ones huddled on the floor--again in rows.
A Night with The Great Paul Butterfield
It was long ago—1986. Only Lonnie Showtime could have pulled it off: two nights with “The Great Paul Butterfield!” And at that ratty little Grant & Green club in San Francisco’s North Beach! Seating capacity: 51! And I was to open up each show—me on vocals, and Geno Scaggs on bass, and Lonnie on congas, and Greg Douglass on guitar, and John Chambers on drums. We were to play for 40 minutes. While the great Paul Butterfield held court in a broom closet amidst mops and sponges. His backstage room and the only one available. He sat on a chair. Next to the broom. And fans all gathered round him like he was Buda—they sat on the floor —cross legged. And everyone hung on every word he said. And he had a rough voice. And a soft gut. And he was instantly likeable. And deep. And intelligent. And I was thrilled to be even near this man. This legend. The one that really showed the world for the first time that a white man could really sing the blues. Not like Musselwhite—paced, understated, even limited—NO! Butter soared! Butterfield went right up there—to the top—full throttle! He was right up there with all the great black singers of all time—with Mahalia and Magic Sam! He soared as high as he went low like the devil in him.
The Electric Dress
It takes an unusual woman to sing blues and soul. She has to be half crazy. If it’s real blues. Now I am not talking about “Chain of Fools” and all that silly ass shit. I’m talking about hard blues. Chicago. Mississipi. Memphis.
It is in fact a man’s music for the most part. Dominated by men. Created from men. There are great women in blues and great writers as well. But in the end it is a man’s game. And you better be a hell of a man in a woman. There are many that would argue with me on this—but I don’t give a damn.
Now singing blues is the thing that makes me feel most alive.
It’s like putting on an electric dress—the dress has to fit just right. If it’s too tight I can’t breathe—if it’s too loose the lines of who I am remain unseen.
Singing blues for me is a direct channel to something over the edge—raw and exotic—even erotic. I’m talkin’ God here of course.
The Electrocution
The man pulled up in a black SUV at the busy corner of Van Ness Avenue and Geary Street—part of the Tenderloin stroll. He tilted his head slightly down and looked at the girl dressed in tight blue jeans, heels, a black leather jacket. She lowered her body slightly and peered into the car—her long hair falling. She could not see the man’s eyes—it was dark.
The girl was pretty. Twenties. Not so hard like so many. Heavy makeup on her face. Bluish circles under her blue eyes. She stood there peering in—trying to see. There was a moment’s hesitation—a pulling back of her elegant body—a pause—like a puff of air—out of nowhere—during a flat day—a desert day.
Red Shoes
“Don’t think—just listen.”
Those were the words that ran through my head as I turned the corner inside the small bright shoe store … just a little ahead of my trick. His name was appropriately called “John,” and he was obviously not going to let me out of his sight. I was there to pick out a pair of dancing shoes—his gift. He noticed that I wore only one pair night after night, and so he made this magnanimous offer—eyes gleaming.
“I wear a size 8, where are the sizes … here they are … oh these are nice!” (the routine).
“Why don’t you pick up several pairs,” asks John dear.
“Oh no, that would be too much. I just need one pair—I want something elegant—a little flashy even—like these.”
I picked up a pair of red high heeled shoes and ran my hands along their smooth surface. I could smell the new leather—high arch, long heel line, elegant tip—sleek. Like me.