Our Man Funk Gets the Bluesfest Blues

On the old highway maps of America, the main routes were red and the back roads blue. Now even the colors are changing. But in those brevities just before dawn and a little after dusk - times neither day nor night - the old roads return to the sky some of its color. Then, in truth, they carry a mysterious cast of blue, and it’s that time when the pull of the blue highway is strongest, when the open road is a beckoning, a strangeness, a place where a man can lose himself. - William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways


MEMO - June 6, 1994, 5:00 AM.

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: Remembrances Along The Blue Highways

Well, Nort, my friend, I promised you a 1994 Chicago Blues Festival review and you shall have it, even at this delicate point in time - just before dawn - as I head south on Illinois State Highway 3, just past Alton, Illinois.

Whenever possible, I avoid major interstates and travel the blue highways. To celebrate the genius of Miles Davis, a native of this old river town, I stopped in Alton to pick up a case of Busch beer and three fried egg sandwiches at one of the local all night establishments. I’m not sure what it was that triggered my memory; maybe the Charlie Daniels playing in the jambox that sits in place of a navigator. But yes, Nort, I’ve just remembered that I had promised you a few words on the Fest. In fact, as I speak into this very heavy 20-year-old, Sony dictating machine hanging around my neck, I’m hoping that part-time secretary back in Chicago will be able to hear my verbal notes over the noise of the Riviera’s muffler for the purpose of typing this up and getting it to you in a timely fashion. Let’s try.

As you may or may not recall, Nort, I’m aiming for St. Louis to investigate what I hear is an exceptional Rhythm & Blues scene. Not blues, per se, but traditional R&B, with its brass accents and wild, swinging grooves. Though this is an adventure I’ve been planning, its timeliness is eerie, as our own Chicago Blues Festival has left me down. After a steady deterioration of the quality of the Festival over the last few years, the damn thing has finally hit rock bottom – for me, at least, and for reasons I’ll touch on later. For now, let me say that I don’t necessarily mean the music itself, but some of the logistics of the bash. Let me also say that, while I attended the Main Stage Closers last evening, I prefer to spout off with regards to the acts on the other two, smaller stages, which don’t receive near the press as the performances held on the three nights at the Petrillo Band Shell.

Now Nort, you know me.... I'm as much a traditionalist as anyone. It’s not important that I went out and bought Robert Johnson’s recordings when they emerged on compact disc; it’s that I knew to do so without recommendation. And I honestly enjoy listening to Johnson and his contemporaries as much as I enjoy listening to Muddy Waters or Buddy Guy or BB King or Clapton or Stevie Ray. But there comes a time when the folks who run the Blues Fest should “just say no” and that time is Now. Their habit of marching the older players up the steps of the Front Porch Stage with a roadie or some such assistant at each arm to prevent a stumbling or even a collapse, followed by an hour of requisite mumbling through a few standards.... well, it has ceased to entertain the audience or do the performer any justice. Nort, I know I’m going to catch a lot of shit for saying all of this, but I’ll wager there are an equal number of blues lovers who just may agree with me.

That said, if the powers that be are going to insist on this practice, how about turning up the PA? I was only three-quarters of the way back on the lawn, but couldn’t hear a lick of Jimmy Rogers’ afternoon set. Frustrated by this, I got up to get a beer. Unlike past years, the beer and food lines were next to nothing since an additional row of booths had been set up along Columbus Drive, stretching south from Jackson Boulevard. However, it didn’t take long for me to see where the lines of past years had gone; the city officials, it appeared, had neglected to add any ticket booths. (Tickets must be bought which are subsequently traded in for beer, pop and food.) A short wait in line was 25 minutes, and completely diminished the intention of the newly added concession outlets.

Fabulous. The already-crowded section of Jackson between Columbus and Lake Shore Drive was even more of a mess with the lines extending from the ticket booths. Which brings me to another bitch: When are the Blues Fest officials going to wise up and set up the Crossroads Stage so that the audience is spread out horizontally across the band instead of stretched vertically in front of it? Again, think of the audience.

One more thought, Nort, and this is merely a sentimental one. In past years, the Front Porch Stage has had a homespun charm to it as it was actually designed to resemble an old country cabin of the south; a place where the blues as we know it may have begun. For Bluesfest ’94, this stage was revamped to have a more generic look, thereby losing much of its flavor. A damn pity.

All right, amigo, there’s my review and, I’ll admit, it’s a depressing one, but theses are my memories of the event, cold and true.

And I see I’ve wrapped up just in time, as I’m just hitting the bridge that crosses the Mississippi River, the Gateway Arch that welcomes southbound travelers to St. Louis is a glorious sight. With the sun’s reflection, it’s damn near blinding and I look away to see that, in my mesmerized state, I’ve spilled a newly opened can of Busch beer onto the floorboard beneath me. Ah, the hell with it. The June heat and humidity here will dry it up fast enough. Meanwhile, stand by for next month’s lowdown on the greasy, funky, down and dirty R&B that’s all the rage here in St. Louis.