Howlin’ Wolf

The Blues Muse: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781518621147: Books

White Station Mississippi

It was one of those vibrant mornings where the air is full of electricity and all the colours of the world are brighter. The sun was up but it was cool. The day was gathering itself before blossoming into its full sultry heat. I didn’t get to see too many mornings like that and on days like this the little town of White Station was serene and beautiful with its white painted wood and red brick.

I was taking the time to ramble with a pair of my old buddies from back in the early Mississippi days and had set out to play a few jukes and do a little busking to get by. I needed a break from the production line. A man could only take so much; besides, I had a whole new urban style to show off, snazzy suits, hats and a new confidence.

There were still some of the old haunts around though most of them had gone over to the amplified music and juke-boxes of the north. I figured there was enough left for us to get by.

Slim was staring across the road at a huge mountain of a man. He must have stood six foot seven and weigh three hundred pounds and was head and shoulders above the group of men he was with.

‘There’s Chester,’ Skip James remarked, nodding towards the huge man.

I saw that it was indeed the mighty Howlin’ Wolf. Out of the context of those smoky Chicago Clubs he looked out of place. I hadn’t realised it was him.

Before I could go across and say hello I could see that his attention was fixed on a diminutive old lady who was coming along the sidewalk, all primped up in her Sunday best, with hat and glasses.

Chester broke away from the group of men he was with and approached the old woman. He seemed to shrink in size and almost cringe before her.

We stood and watched the spectacle unfold.

The little lady stopped and peered at him in disbelief, frowning up at the huge man blocking her path.

‘I do believe that’s his mother,’ Slim said, not taking his eyes off of them.

 The other men had shrunk back out of the way, melting into the shadows.

I thought that it was possible. I knew Chester came from round these parts and I’d heard he’d started out working the farms. The story was that his mother had thrown him out as a child because of his laziness and lack of religion and he’d gone to live with his uncle,  but he’d run away from his uncle’s place because he’d been beaten badly and gone to live with his father. He’d always been huge. As a child they’d called him Bull Cow. He was so huge that I couldn’t imagine this little woman having given birth to such a giant or him allowing his uncle to beat him. The stories of his working the mules and manhandling bales of straw were legendary and probably based on truth. In his speaking voice he deployed a low whisper but in full flight his voice roared and howled with the power of a tempest. It would have been a formidable thing to confront an enraged Chester Burnett; not something I’d be at all keen of witnessing, let alone be on the receiving end of.

The two were in conversation. I could see Chester imploring and begging while his mother was having none of it. She stood rigid and stern as he beseeched.

‘She do believe he’s doing the Devil’s work,’ Skip observed.

Chester took a wallet out of his jacket pocket and held a note out to her.

She knocked it out of his hand and stalked off angrily leaving Chester standing bereft on the sidewalk. I figured it probably wasn’t the time to reacquaint myself with the Wolf and we quietly slunk away before he could see us