Junior Wells & Blues Epiphany

Part IV of Choosing Your First Harp is on hold so I can wax semi-poetic about 1965's HooDoo Man Blues by Junior Wells and The Chicago Blues Band with Buddy Guy. Upon first listen I had a series of very personal transcendent moments which were both beautiful and somewhat unfortunate.

I was at the gym on the bike. Sennheisers were jammed into my ears and my Shuffle was pumping out Snatch It Back And Hold It. Junior channeling The Godfather of Soul. Next up was Good Morning School Girl. The visual imagery this song evokes might be a little too suggestive for the sensibilities of some. But you can dance to it.

By the time Hey Lawdy Mama started I was swaying and moaning to the wail of Junior's Marine Band....waaaa, waaa, waaa, aah, aah ,ah! I was also doing something with my shoulders that white people shouldn't do unless they're being weened off of anti-convulsents.

It was about this time that I noticed the gym patrons were staring at me with looks that combined equal parts pity, fear and contempt. Not the first time this has happened and I've started using it as my cue to wrap up the ol' workout.

Safely back within the friendly confines I listened to the disk five more times. Each time I discovered new sonic gems. I don't know the names of the bassist or the drummer but they were good enough that I didn't really think about them. That is, they laid down a perfect, seamless and flowing foundation for Wells and Guy. And this is a restrained Buddy Guy. Not the player whose riff library has been pillaged, admittedly, by Clapton, Beck, Page, and Vaughan, et al., and who was shredding behind his head before Hendrix could play a solid G chord.

Here he plays mostly picked rhythm. Unlike the archetypal modern guitarist, who will for our purposes be represented by the avatar of Eddie Van Halen, he has the confidence to play slowly enough to invite the listener to examine every nuance of every note. A novel concept indeed. As for riff pilfering, listen to In the Wee Hours and if you don't hear big chunks of Little Wing (1967), listen again.

As for Junior Wells, his vocals and harp playing were a visceral revelation. James Cotton might be more technically proficient but I think I'd rather listen to Junior. Listening to him strangling notes to the point of near inaudibility, letting them catch their breath and tamping them back down for an extended unter-wail was dizzying. Is there a musical equivalent to autoerotic asphyxiation? Can a sound be muted and uninhibited at the same time? I caught myself holding my breath on several occasions. His singing was, in a word, organic. Real and from the streets. Periodically vocalizing grunts and groans through the harp it reminded me of a wolf surreptitiously baring it's teeth.

This album won't change your life but for $11.99 it will cleanse the sludge of American Idol from your soul.