Blues Song Genealogy: “Talk to Your Daughter”

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by David Hamburger

Video guitar lesson, part 1:

Click here for Part 1 of the “Talk to Your Daughter” tab.

Video guitar lesson, part 2:

Click here for Part 2 of the “Talk to Your Daughter” tab.

Some songs don’t go back that far, but have still cut a wide swath through the blues world. Then again, “so far” is relative. J.B. Lenoir recorded his “Talk To Your Daughter” in 1954, just as postwar Chicago blues was about to really hit its stride. That puts the song’s origins a good twenty to twenty-five years after the making of anything by Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon Jefferson or the dozens of other prewar guitar-playing singers whose repertoire has been such a critical part of rock ‘n roll, largely by way of said Chicago blues heyday as filtered through the tail end of the Folk revival era and the British Invasion.

My own first encounter with “Talk To Your Daughter” was as the title track to Robben Ford’s 1988 solo album. Ford had been working for years already in any number of contexts, and had already recorded one blues classic as Jimmy Witherspoon’s sideman, Live: Jimmy Witherspoon and Robben Ford. But with Talk To Your Daughter Ford seemed to be saying, “yeah, it’s been fun and all palling around with Larry Carlton, cutting sessions in LA and wasting my time with – who’s that trumpet guy? Davis, Miles Davis, but what I really want to do is direct. I mean – I’d settle for making a real blues album, where I get to sing and everything, too.” While there’s footage of him playing it live as recently as 2009, here’s one from the year his record came out:

For a completely different angle that still swings like crazy, check out New Orleans singer and guitarist Snooks Eaglin’s 1985 trio version. In particular, it’s a lesson in how to hold it all together with just bass and drums, as Eaglin brings in jump-blues style chord hits during his second solo chorus that push the energy level over the top while threading the feel of the solo and the vocal verses together.

1960s bluesman Magic Sam’s version drew directly from J.B. Lenoir’s groove but clearly brought a hip, young West Side energy to the song. (Fellow Chicagoan Hound Dog Taylor would cover the song as well, though you’ll have to hunt up some audio on your own for that.)

Like any self-respecting iconic blues song, “Talk To Your Daughter” has also made it into the mainstream rock repertoire, being covered by Thin Lizzy as a tour encore in the 1970s and in true guitar-hero fashion by Johnny Winter, at Woodstock, no less:

Let’s conclude, however, at the source – here’s J.B. Lenoir laying down the original “Talk To Your Daughter,” recorded for the Parrot label in 1954. Acoustic guitar, drums and vocals, and you gotta love the way the drums just kind of collapse into place at the end of the first bar, and how Lenoir vamps on the I chord for the solo. What makes it especially cool and what, perhaps, has contributed to its longetivity, is that, like some of Willie Dixon’s best tunes, it has an actual verse/chorus structure, with the repeated “talk to your daughter” giving the song a lyric hook that’ s more like a pop song.

By way of an epilogue, here’s contemporary bluesman Alvin Youngblood Hart bringing things nearly full circle with a solo take on Lenoir’s certified classic:

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Blues Guitar Genealogy: “Outskirts of Town”

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Updated video:

Click here for the tab.

I first heard “I’m Gonna Move To The Outskirts of Town,” titled simply “Outskirts of Town,” on Buddy Guy’s 1972 LP Stone Crazy. Out of print for a time, and then made available in the ‘90s on the Alligator label, Stone Crazy has long been held up by my pal and blues sensei Carlo Rotella as one half (the other being A Man and the Blues) of the twin tablets of Guy’s solo oevre, the essential Buddy, one of two records of his you’d take to both a desert island and to a Harvard symposium on the developing role of the electric guitar in postwar blues. Not to mention the best record on which to hear Buddy exclaiming “arrrrrh!” between licks. “Outskirts of Town” is just one slow blues on an album that also includes “Are You Losing Your Mind?” and “I Smell A Rat” (the latter with the drop-dead opening line “I smell a rat, baby – I think he’s walkin’ ‘round my house on two feet.”)

In light of all this, it’s even more startling than usual to dip back to 1936 and hear the first recording of this song, by slide guitarist and singer Casey Bill Weldon. Weldon belongs to that minority of bluesmen who played or play slide lap-style, and he did it with band accompaniment on “I’m Gonna Move To The Outskirts of Town.”

What happened relatively soon after that was one of the best things that could happen to any song in the 1940s – it was picked up and recorded by Louis Jordan just as Jordan’s career as one of the most successful hitmakers in American popular music was taking off.

Jordan being one of B.B. King’s great idols, the song was in turn recorded by King, but equally storied bluesmen including Big Bill Broonzy and Jimmy Reed turned in versions as well.

Jordan’s popularity and success as a gifted singer and saxophonist with a talent for writing and delivering jivey, clever songs in the jazz- and blues-fusing style he largely pioneered, jump blues, makes it unsurprising to find musicians as diverse as Reed and jazz saxophonist Ben Webster playing the tune. In this Sixties session done for Jackie Gleason’s TV show, the Duke Ellington alumnus Webster joins singer Jimmy Witherspoon in an unusually uptempo version. (Reed’s version, in contrast, is remarkably downtempo considering the generally sunny disposition of Reed’s catalog.)

Click here for the video.

That Albert King covered the tune perhaps made it inevitable that “Outskirts of Town” would make it into the rock or blues-rock world – or at least that Stevie Ray Vaughan would one day be heard taking a shot at it in company with King. I leave to you what to make of King choosing to file his nails during Stevie’s second solo.

A couple of decades earlier, however, the song was already part of the Allman Brothers’ 1970 set at Ludlow Garage, and you can hear them applying some of the same moves to “Outskirts” as they do to their more enshrined repertoire from the Fillmore East recordings: the double-timed organ solo on “Outskirts” echoes a similar arranging move on “Stormy Monday,” and Gregg makes use of some similar backup riffs on both tunes as well.

Click here for the video.

For some reason, I find these sorts of discoveries weirdly reassuring and a little disappointing at the same time. Disappointing that the double-time moment on “Stormy Monday,” which I still find so thrilling after hearing it so many times, wasn’t some super-spontaneous six-way stroke of luck that night, but reassuring, that these guys worked out some of their ideas like anyone else, and used them where they needed to. Granted, they were really cool ideas – like the turnaround they built into their version of “Outskirts,” making it more their own in the process, but, at certain moments at least, worked out ideas nonetheless.

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Blues Genealogy: “Mary Had a Little Lamb”

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by David Hamburger

Click here for the tab file.

Like a knucklehead, I remember walking through the mall with my mom in 1983 and seeing a big cardboard display for an album called Texas Flood outside a chain record store called “Strawberries.” Since all I was really interested in at that point was owning every piece of vinyl The Beatles ever put out, I kept walking, probably in pursuit of new Wallabys and straight-leg Levis a few doors down. Actually, by 1983 I would have been old enough to do my own shopping, and was already hip to my sister’s copy of Derek and the Dominoes, so the whole incident is really pretty inexplicable, but I was an oblivious kid in many ways. So I didn’t encounter Stevie Ray Vaughan’s hopped-up nursery rhyme, “Mary Had a Little Lamb” until years later.

It has much to recommend it – it’s a funny idea, it gives Vaughan a chance to do a little lower-register crooning on an otherwise pretty balls-out record, and it mixes a funky little inside-out feeling eight-bar verse with twelve-bar instrumental call-and-response choruses chock-full of low-end, Muddy Waters-style riffing.

Stevie Ray Vaughan - Texas FloodIt also wasn’t Vaughan’s idea – he lifted the arrangement pretty much note-for-note from a track off of Buddy Guy’s solo-artist debut on Vanguard, the sensational A Man And The Blues LP. And there’s nothing wrong with that – it’s clearly an homage to a beloved inspiration, and I personally give Vaughan big points for including something so tongue-in-cheek amidst the bad-assery of the rest of his own debut record, although my strictly uninformed guess is that he chose it more for how fun the guitar part is to play than for conceptual reasons. I’d also guess that his low-key singing was a conscious attempt to sidestep comparison with Guy’s impassioned, falsetto-stoked vocal by choosing a completely opposite approach – also smart and cool.

Guy’s version had horns and an immaculate Chicago rhythm section including Fred Below on drums, Otis Spann on piano and session ace Wayne Bennet on rhythm guitar (Bennet played on Bobby “Blue” Bland’s 1961, Allmans-inspiring version of “Stormy Monday,” among many other cuts). Let loose on his own in the studio for the first time since the late 50s, Guy channelled his brilliant, glassy tone through a fierce yet economic sensibility on every solo, while his vocals achieved a similar sense of barely controlled clarity. Guy himself covers B.B. King’s signature “Sweet Little Angel,” one of a handful of patiently, achingly slow blues on the record, and even the transparently titled “Jam on a Monday Morning” transcends throwaway status as the band takes three minutes out of its day to play the shit out of a goof-off dance groove.

Like any self-respecting hipster, I took great pride in knowing that Guy’s version was the real source of Stevie Ray’s mojo, and yet – there’s more. In 1961, Freddie King put out the first of two instrumental albums, Let’s Hide Away and Dance Away With Freddy King. And included in this inventive and influential stash is a tune called “Just Pickin’,” which sounds just like Guy’s “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” only without the vocal. I mean, exactly. Check it out.

So it seems there are several possibilities. One, that Guy consciously lifted a known King tune and put on the nursery rhyme lyrics as a live-act goof, and wound up recording it for Vanguard. Another is that, from knowing, learning, hearing or performing King’s tune, it wound its way so far into Guy’s vocabulary that, while working on the idea for “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and reaching for some kind of stock 12-bar interlude to the 8-bar vocal, Guy pulled up the King song lick-for-lick without realizing it.

Or maybe it goes back further than King. Guy and other Chicago guitarists have always been open in their reverence for Earl Hooker, who made numerous vocal and instrumental records and cut dozens of sideman sessions from the 50s until his untimely demise in the 1970, and here he is doing the same instrumental groove as King and Guy in 1969. I mean – the same. It’s after King and Guy’s versions came out, but Hooker’s title makes no reference whatsoever to either tune.

So maybe it’s just something that was in the air, that everyone did, just like a shuffle. Maybe King and Guy consciously or unconsciously lifted their arrangment(s) from the under-recorded Hooker. If you know more about it than I obviously do, by all means drop a line. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a YouTube clip of Noah laying this one down on the Ark after the animals went to sleep.

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Blues Guitar Lesson: “Sweet Home Chicago” Genealogy

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by David Hamburger

Come on…Baby, Don’t You Want to Know?

Over the years I’ve had the pleasure of teaching at various workshops in the company of some fabulous blues guitarists, including Paul Rishell, Steve James and Duke Robillard, among others. I’ve always soaked up as much as I could from these experiences, realizing early on that as long as no one who was paying me to teach realized just how much I was actually learning myself, I was pretty much sitting on so much velvet. The thing I’ve always envied about these guys is their hands-on connection to the past. Steve’s got stories about backing up Furry Lewis onstage in Memphis in the early ’70s. Duke told me once how he got called up to sit in with Muddy Waters, while Freddie King was already onstage too, and Freddie proceeded to glower at Duke the entire time for messing with his own Muddy moment. “And Freddie was a big guy!” laughed Duke. But the best of all are Paul Rishell’s stories about backing up Howlin’ Wolf in Boston, also in the early ’70s. After one session, one of the other musicians asked Wolf if he had any words of wisdom for a young, up and coming bluesman. Wolf looked the afro’d and dashiki’d guitarist up and down and growled, “Yeah! Throw them pedals in the river on the way to the barber shop!”

So I wish the things I am about to tell you, I learned from hanging with Robert Lockwood Jr., sitting in with Roosevelt Sykes, and catching Magic Sam at his incendiary Ann Arbor Blues Festival appearance in the 1960s. But I didn’t. I learned them on Youtube, and from Wikipedia. Also from Elijah Wald’s fantastic book, Escaping the Delta. More on that in a future post. For now, on to the Robert Johnson tune, “Sweet Home Chicago.”

Robert Johnson:

First things first. Johnson’s tune is, according to most people who think about these sorts of things a lot, a kind of a re-write or development of a 1928 Scrapper Blackwell song, “Kokomo Blues.”

Scrapper Blackwell:

Blackwell is best known for playing guitar with the pianist Leroy Carr, who wrote the classic “How Long How Long Blues.” “Kokomo Blues” was then recorded in all of 1934 by James Arnold as “Old Original Kokomo Blues,” which, to put things in perspective, would be like recording Beyonce’s 2004 hit “Naughty Girl” today as “Old Original Naughty Girl.”

Kokomo Arnold:

Johnson’s song, obviously, replaced the relatively obscure city of Kokomo, Indiana, with the hoped-for destination of millions of post-Emancipation blacks, Chicago, and in so doing unwittingly created an anthem for a blues scene that, while young and thriving, had yet to explode into the postwar phenomenon of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Chess Records and all the rest.

But almost nobody sings the final line of the first verse the way Johnson originally wrote it: “Back to that land of California, sweet home Chicago.” Pianist and singer Roosevelt Sykes is generally credited with changing that line to “Back to that same old place, sweet home Chicago,” which is how Magic Sam, Freddie King and, of course, the Blues Brothers went on to sing it in the postwar era. (And if you can’t trust John Belushi, who can you trust? I mean, the man’s wearing a tie, for cryin’ out loud.)

Roosevelt Sykes:

Musically, acoustic and electric versions of the song diverge as well, although there are some interesting connections to be made all around. Johnson’s original is based around the shuffle figure I grew up thinking of as the Chuck Berry rhythm, though Johnson himself deserves much of the credit for making this barrelhouse piano sound an essential blues guitar move. Carriers of the Johnson flame like Robert Lockwood Jr. and Johnny Shines ring their own subtle changes on the Johnson essentials, putting their own stamp on the shuffle figure itself (with various open-position fills) and Johnson’s distinctive intro and turnaround licks.

Robert Lockwood Jr.:

Johnny Shines:

Freddie King and Magic Sam, on the other hand, both have similar takes on what I think of as the electric version of the song. Whether one of them was the first to apply that intro and those turnaround licks to the tune, or if it was someone else, I haven’t been able to suss out yet, but I’m all ears if anyone knows (or has a plausible theory that doesn’t involve zombie swordfish, the color magenta or the C.I.A.). In the meantime, what’s cool and interesting about both of their versions is that Magic Sam and Freddie King are both essentially fingerstyle guys, even though they play electric guitar. And so they both do a lot of cool open position work, both for chording and soloing, and make hefty use of a classic Chicago turnaround move for the IV chord that I’ll get into in the video post along with a bunch of these other nuances.

Magic Sam:

Freddie King:

Poke around Youtube and you’ll also find versions where people append Elmore James’ classic “Dust My Broom” intro to “Sweet Home Chicago,” a song James does not seem to have done himself. Considering that Robert Johnson didn’t actually do “Dust My Broom” on slide himself, you can see how the longer you look at these things, it just gets weirder and weirder, like an M.C. Escher print. Heavy, dude.

David Hamburger leads a double life as a guitar geek/educator and composer for TV, film and advertising. Check out the former at www.davidhamburger.com and the latter at www.davidhamburgermusic.com, and dip into his popular Truefire course Blues Alchemy for his take on all things 12-bar and beyond.

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Blues Guitar Lesson: “Stormy Monday” Genealogy

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By David Hamburger

There used to be a blues club on the upper East side of Manhattan called “Manny’s Carwash,” which the New Yorker magazine routinely dismissed as “an ad man’s idea of a nightclub.” And there was a kind of manufactured vibe to the place, as a friend of mine once theorized over a round of tall and frosty ones: “It’s like some guy woke up one day and said, ‘Yeah, I know, I’ll start a club! In Manhattan! That’s it! And we’ll have, you know, those neon Bud signs in the window! Yeah! And a brick wall behind the bar! And, live bands, that play – what’s that funky music they always have bands playing in the movies? Blues! That’s it! We’ll get some of those funky blues bands to come play!”

To be fair, they did have their share of good bands, although it seemed at times that their audience was cut from the same cloth as the club’s hypothetical, brick-addled owner. I found myself standing one night behind a particularly inebriated dude who kept bellowing for the band to play “Stormy Monday,” then turning to his girlfriend to grandly explain, “It’s an Allman Brothers song.” Which would have been o.k., because the Allmans did do a pretty damn definitive version of the song on the pretty damn definitive At Fillmore East. Would have been o.k., except that *on* the Fillmore East record Duane Allman *introduces* the song by saying, “Actually, it’s an old T-Bone Walker song.” So, I mean, come on.

The thing is, though, that if you go dig up the original T-Bone Walker version of “Stormy Monday,” it doesn’t sound anything like what Duane and company played that night in 1971. Here’s a latter-day version by T-Bone himself, where he plays in much the same vein as his original recording:

I always thought it was kind of weird that the Allmans’ version was so far afield of the original — until I discovered the missing link: Bobby Bland’s R&B chart-climbing version from 1962, with one Wayne Bennett on guitar. That’s what Duane is talking about on the Fillmore East record, though I never quite caught it at the time. His full intro is, “While we’re doing that blues thing, we’re gonna do an old Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland song. Actually, it’s an old T-Bone Walker song.” T-Bone’s 1947 song, officially titled “Call It Stormy Monday (But Tuesday’s Just As Bad)” to distinguish it Billy Eckstine and Earl Hines’ 1942′s “Stormy Monday Blues,” stuck pretty much to the I, IV and V chords, though it did include plenty of Walker’s already-signature slippery, sliding ninth chord licks.

Bennett, one of those “musicians’ musicians” (who also had a hand in Buddy Guy’s 1968 Vanguard debut “A Man And The Blues”), took those sliding T-Bone licks and incorporated them into a chord progression that was, ironically, much jazzier than the original. Dig it:

I don’t know whether the progression on the Bland version came from Bennett, Bland, or someone else in the studio, but it’s clearly what the Allmans went ahead and built their distinctive chord progression off of for their version of “Stormy Monday.”

Which makes perfect sense given Duane and Gregg’s recollections of playing R&B music with top-forty bands in the early sixties for fraternity parties around the southeastern U.S. Bobby Bland’s “Stormy Monday” would have been just the kind of current single you’d need to know for those gigs, and it was obviously something they were still into playing almost ten years later at the Fillmore shows.

Of course, plenty of people have continued to treat Walker’s song as a straight-up I IV V blues. Check out this Buddy Guy version from the same year as “A Man And The Blues,” featuring the same kind of lean, horn-driven sound he favored on the LP:

And finally I will show you how to play it in all these different styles:

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