Untitled

SAM MYERS
SAM MYERS
T H E B LU ES IS MY S TORY
S AM MY E R S AND JE F F HORTON
UNIVERSITY PRESS OF MISSISSIPPI / JACKSON

AM E RI CAN M ADE M U S I C S ER IES
A D V IS ORY B OA R D
DAV I D EVA N S , G EN ER A L ED IT OR K I P L O R NE L L
BA R RY JEA N A N CELET FR A NK M C A RT H U R
ED WA R D A . B ER LIN BI L L M A L O NE
JOY CE J. B OLD EN E D D I E S. M E A D O W S
R OB B OWMA N M A NU E L H . P E ÑA
S U S A N C. COOK D AVI D SA NJ E K
CU RT IS ELLIS ON WAYNE D . SH I R L E Y
WILLIA M F ER R IS R O BE RT WA L SE R
MICH A EL H A R R IS C H A R L E S W O L FE
JO H N ED WA R D H A S S E
www.upress.state.ms.us
The University Press of Mississippi is a member of the

Association of American University Presses.
Copyright © 2006 by University Press of Mississippi

All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
First edition 2006

⬁
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Sam, 1936–
Sam Myers : the blues is my story / Sam Myers and
Jeff Horton.— 1st ed.
p. cm. — (American made music series)
Includes discography (p. 145), song catalog (p. 155),
bibliographical references (p. 163), and index.
ISBN-13: 978-1-57806-895-1 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-57806-895-9 (cloth : alk. paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-57806-896-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-57806-896-7 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Myers,
Sam, 1936– —Biography. 2. African American musicians—
Biography. I. Horton, Jeff. II. Title. III. Series.
ML410.M986A3 2006
781.643092—dc22
2006002215
British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

TO LIT T LE M ILT ON CA M P BE L L
1934–2005
A ND
CE LE STE M YE RS
1912–2005
CONTENTS
A CK N OWLED G MEN T S [ ix ]
IN T R OD U CT ION [ xi ]
CH A PT ER 1 . EARLY YEARS [ 3 ]
CHAPTER 2. COTTON FIELDS, RAILROADS, AND SAWMILLS [ 14 ]
CH A PT ER 3. PINEY WOODS [ 23 ]
CH A PT ER 4. GOING TO CHICAGO [ 34 ]
CHAPT ER 5. CHICAGO AND JACKSON FAMILIES [ 41 ]
CH A PT ER 6. ELMORE JAMES [ 51 ]
CH A PT ER 7. JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI [ 65 ]
CHAPT ER 8. JACKSON RADIO AND RECORDING [ 74 ]
CH A PT ER 9 . THE BLUES [ 83 ]
CH A PT ER 10. THE HARMONICA [ 101 ]
C H A PT ER 11. THE MUSICIANS’ UNION [ 108 ]

CON T EN T S
CH A PT ER 1 2. THE RECORD BUSINESS [ 112 ]
CH A PT ER 1 3. STORIES FROM THE ROAD [ 124 ]
CHAPTER 1 4. SAM’S BEST FRIEND, ANSON FUNDERBURGH [ 137 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y [ 145 ]
S ON G CATA LOG [ 155 ]
S AM MY ER S , ELMOR E JA MES , A N D B OB B Y R OB IN SO N SE SSI O NS [ 157 ]
A PPEA R A N CES , AWA R D S , A N D H ON O R S [ 161 ]
B IB LIOG R A PH Y [ 1 63 ]
IN D EX [ 1 65 ]
[ v iii ]
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first thanks go to my wife, Robin, who pushed me to write Sam

Myers’s life story. Her slashing red pen and brisk editorial comments
went a long way towards turning a rambling manuscript into a real
book. A number of friends provided significant help, contacts, and
moral support. Jay Brakefield, a distinguished blues author in his
own right, did the first edit of a very rough draft, gave me some valu-
able tips on writing and structure, and recommended that I send the
manuscript to Craig Gill, editor in chief at the University Press of
Mississippi. Craig thought well enough of it to pass it on to the dis-
tinguished Dr. David Evans, director of the ethnomusicology/regional
studies doctoral program at the University of Memphis. Dr. Evans
provided insightful advice in showing me how to tighten and rear-
range what was still a rough manuscript. He was very encouraging
and helpful to an amateur blues biographer, and for that I am deeply
grateful.
Several musicians were instrumental in the development of this
story. Anson Funderburgh contributed a number of anecdotes and
important historical background. Brian “Hash Brown” Calway
detailed the intricacies of Sam’s harmonica technique. Craig Horton
and Vasti Jackson contributed valuable insight into recording
sessions they did with Sam back in the day. Blues legends B. B. King
[ ix ]
A CK N OWLED G MEN T S
and Robert Lockwood, Jr., both graciously provided material for the
introduction. And I gratefully give special thanks to blues chanteuse
Robin Banks, who first introduced me to Sam Myers back in 2001.
Dallas blues impresario Chuck Nevitt suggested the title for this
book. As soon as I heard it, I knew it was the one. Don Ottensman,
blues programming director of KNON radio in Dallas, generously
provided me with vintage photos of Sam and many words of
encouragement.
Sam has a network of friends who have kept him going through
good times and bad. Foremost is Joe Jonas, who has worn out a couple
of cars taking Sam to doctors’ appointments, picking up his fine suits
from the cleaners, and carrying him to gigs all over town. The inner
circle also includes Patti Coghill, Brenda Greer, Ravis Guthrie, Joanna
Iz, and Jeff “Harp Man” Reed.
Last and most important, I thank Sam Myers for giving me, a mere
fan who became a friend, the opportunity to learn about the blues in
a direct and personal way that few have been privileged to experience.
I am proud to tell his story, in his own words.
[ x ]
INTRODUCTION
The idea of writing Sam Myers’s life story came to me because of

bowling. People who know Sam are aware that he is legally blind and
somewhat infirm due to diabetes and gout. But as it turns out, Sam
loves to go bowling with his friends. Somehow, he can see just enough,
in the right kind of way, to be able to bowl a pretty fair game. I’ve seen
him throw three strikes in a row.
One night in early 2002 I drove Sam to the local bowling alley
to meet up with our friends. On the way over, he told me a very
detailed and hilarious story about the time when he and Elmore James
ran a moonshine still on the banks of the Pearl River near Jackson,
Mississippi. I wished that I had a tape recorder with me and thought
that perhaps a retelling would make a good magazine article. My wife,
Robin, said that I needed to write a book about Sam’s life instead.
Sam is very well known in the Dallas blues community, where he
turns up at regular jams when he’s not on the road, and he has many
fans around the country and the world. His peers regard him with
affection and respect. They love to tell their favorite “Sam stories.”
Among the artists he has known and worked with over the years
are B. B. King and Robert Lockwood, Jr., both of whom were kind
enough to share with me their thoughts on Sam.
[ xi ]
IN T R OD U CT ION
“Well, I don’t remember exactly when I met Sam Myers, it’s been
such a long time,” King told me. “I think he’s a great man, a great
musician, and a wonderful storyteller. He’s always been up-and-up
with me and he’s a nice person to be around. I think there’s just one
Sam Myers.”
Lockwood said, “I’ve been knowing Sam for so long I can’t think
of how we met. I’ve been knowing him almost all of his life. We
worked together off and on for near twenty years. He’s a damn good
musician, he’s a nice person, and he’s my friend, my best friend.”
But even with friends like these and after fifty years in the busi-
ness, Sam Myers never became a household name. There are many
fabulously talented and hard-working bluesmen and blueswomen just
like Sam, who’ve poured their music from their hearts all their lives in
obscurity and never got the chance to have their stories told. This is
my effort to rectify that situation with Sam.
—JEFF HORTON
[ xii ]
SAM MYERS
C HA P TE R 1
EARLY YEARS
Samuel Joseph Myers was born in Laurel, Mississippi, on February 19,

1936. He is the oldest child of Ollie and Celeste Myers. Until recently, both
resided in Jackson, Mississippi; Celeste passed away during the aftermath
of Hurricane Katrina in September 2005. Sam was followed by Mary Nell
and Wardell (both deceased) and Ollie, Jr., who now lives in Rose Hill,
Mississippi.
Located in Jones County in the southeast region of Mississippi known
as the Piney Woods, the city of Laurel was founded in 1882. At the turn
of the century, the railroads opened the region for large-scale timber
production, and the Eastman-Gardiner Company built the nation’s first
large-scale lumber mill near Laurel. More mill companies soon followed
and made Laurel one of the largest mill towns in the South. Within a few
years, Laurel milled and shipped more yellow pine than anyplace else
in the world. In 1926, William Mason discovered a process for making
durable, inexpensive hardboard from the massive amounts of wood waste
produced by several mills owned by his wife’s family in Laurel. This
material, dubbed Masonite, is still in use all over the world.
Because of the sandy soil and heavily forested terrain, pre–Civil War
Jones County (named for the Revolutionary War naval hero John Paul
Jones) depended far less on slave labor than the richer cotton country of
[ 3 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
the Mississippi Delta a hundred miles to the northwest. A county census

at the time tallied fewer than five hundred slaves and “free men of color.”
Partly as a result of less farming and sharecropping in that part of the
state and the many relatively well-paying jobs in the railroads and lum-
ber mills, Jones County escaped much of the misery brought about by the
Civil War and Reconstruction. While life was still filled with hard work
for most of the rural population, 1940s Laurel, Mississippi, was a good
place for a visually impaired black child to grow up.
Sam contracted juvenile cataracts when he was seven years old.
Two surgeries to restore his vision proved unsuccessful. Sam is not totally
blind; he can make out shapes and shadows, and he can recognize
familiar faces if they are close enough. He wears black-framed glasses
with thick lenses and walks slowly and carefully to avoid obstacles.
Possibly as a result of losing any workable sight at such a young age,
Sam’s memory and other senses are particularly acute. He was taught to
read Braille, and for a while he used a Braille typewriter to write down
lyrics to songs he composed. Now he mostly relies on a prodigious mem-
ory and a faithful stenographer, Joanna Iz, who publishes Southwest
Blues magazine in Dallas, Texas. While Sam can read using Braille, he
has never been able to write even his own name by hand, and he cannot
read regular print. Sam uses a stamp to sign documents and autographs.
The stamp’s imprint was written in script by his close friend Joe Jonas.
Sam will sign autographs by hand if coaxed, but the result is an illegible
scrawl.
This chapter covers Sam’s early life at home. Part of the narrative
includes statements gathered from Sam’s father, Ollie, his son Willie Earl,
and his boyhood friend Eddie Booth during a 2002 visit by the author to
Ollie’s home, which was then in Mobile, Alabama. Sam’s mother, Celeste,
was living at the time in a nearby nursing home, the victim of a severe
stroke some ten years before. Bedridden and unable to speak, she recog-
nized Sam instantly when he came to see her, grasping for his hand as only
[ 4 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
a mother will do. Sam’s father visited her every day, but sadly, he also
suffered a stroke in early 2004. He lived in the same nursing home in
Jackson, Mississippi, as his wife until her recent passing.
I’m the oldest of four kids. I grew up in Laurel, Mississippi, with two
brothers and a sister. As a child I lived a very country life, and went off
to a separate school from my brothers and sister when I was about ten
years old. They attended public school, but I went away to school at
Piney Woods, south of Jackson on Highway 49. After school was out, I
would spend just a little time at home, like a week or two at the most.
Then I would go up to Chicago to visit family.
Back home my father was a sharecropper. He also worked road con-
struction and in the timber industry with logs, pulpwood, and Mason-
ite, that sort of stuff. Then he worked on the railroads. When I was at
home during the summer, my brothers and sister and I just played with
the kids in the neighborhood.
O l l i e Mye r s ( S a m’s Father):

Sam’s daddy and uncle were in the woods working one day. It was in
July, hot weather. Sam was about twelve years old. He was bringing them
their lunch when he got into a mess of yellow jackets. His uncle heard the
dishes falling and Sam hollering. His uncle said, “Oh, that boy done got
in that yellow jacket nest!” Sam was bringing a big lunch: sweet potatoes,
peas, greens, and tea in a jug to drink. He had a whole dishpan of food.
You could hear him singing as he was coming along, whistling and sing-
ing. We went up there and those sweet potatoes, peas, the jug of tea, it
was all over and full of yellow jackets. We had a time getting those yellow
jackets off of him!
At that time they would broadcast The Game of the Day every day of
the week on the Mutual Radio Network. I wanted to hurry back to the
[ 5 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
house because the game would come on at one o’clock. It was about
quarter to twelve when I left, and when I got to where they was work-
ing it was exactly twelve o’clock. They had told me about these yellow
jackets. Their nest was in an old stump. I just didn’t remember to go
around it. I walked right up to it, and my foot bumped that son of a
gun and all them yellow jackets come out of that durn thing and got
on me and started crawling. When I went to take my hand to fight ’em
off, about three of them bit me at once and then that food went every-
where, all over the woods.
Ol l i e :
Yes, sir, I can’t remember the song he was singing, but he was whistling
and singing as he was coming out of the woods, but it cut out when those
yellow jackets got him!
My childhood was a unique thing; I used to be into a whole lot of

stuff. We’d get a bunch of kids together, and we’d steal watermelons.
Wherever we’d see a watermelon patch, we’d bust the watermelons
open and get the heart out, if they were ripe, just nothing but the
heart, and we’d eat it right there. There was a guy who had some great
big ones in his field. There was a neighbor girl who nearly went blind
behind that. This guy was sitting on his porch, he had just got through
cleaning his rifle, and he had gone to sleep. There was a big wasps’ nest
on a fence pole at the corner of his house. Great big wasps’ nest, those
red ones, we called them “guinea wasps.” Everybody made it through
his fence except for this one girl. Some fool, I don’t know who it was,
shook the fence and knocked the nest off, and every one of those
wasps got on that girl. She hollered, and we pulled her on through.
That man jumped up to see what the noise was. He was nice about it.
He said, “All y’all had to do was ask me and I would have given you all
the watermelons you wanted.” But see, back then, wasn’t nothing good
[ 6 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
unless you were stealing it. Since it had happened on his property, he
put the girl in the hospital, and he made sure she got whatever she
needed. Her parents didn’t press charges or nothing.
The wasps had stung her, and by that being done in summer, it
was hot weather, she blanked out and lost consciousness. She was
blind for a long time. That man thought that he was responsible for
that happening. And he took care of her, all the medical stuff that she
needed. Later on, her folks moved up into Laurel, Mississippi. When
she was about eighteen or so they moved her upstairs in their house,
and somehow she fell coming down the stairs, hit her head, and her
sight came back. She was still a young woman, and she got back to
where she could see again.
Ed di e Booth ( S a m’s Childhood Friend):

Me and Sam used to walk down Highway 15, going to the dance. He
would be walking along in front, and I’d be walking along behind him,
and he’d be telling all those good jokes. And I’d be back there behind him
laughing. He’d say, “Hey, Bubba, come on, we got to get on down there.
Tighten it up.” And I’d say, “You tighten up!” We’d get there and he’d say,
“What you gonna do, Sonny?” I’d say, “I’m not gonna do nothing, I’m
fixin’ to dance!” Sam sure could dance too, yes, sir. Me and him had some
times!
Me and Sam and Ollie Junior used to play baseball with a can. We’d
go home in the evening time, our hands all cut up. So we finally got us a
real ball, and we’d stay out there and play. Man, we was bad then, when
we got that ball. We’d be throwing that ball around, playing like the pros.
Yeah, we was tough then when we got us a real ball.
When I was about twelve, maybe thirteen, something happened as to

why I smoke Camels today. My dad was working road construction,
and we were staying in this big house that was up on pillars that
[ 7 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
held the house up off the ground. He would have cigarettes in little
traveling cases. What we would do, we’d steal his cigarettes and put
them under that little crawl space under the house. If we caught him
not looking or if he was gone, we would go outside and get those
cigarettes that we had hidden. That’s where we would do our
smoking, my brothers and me and my cousin. He used to come
over and we all would hang together; he lived close, he was my mother’s
sister’s son. We’d just be smoking and going on.
My dad took out so many packages at one time, we looked at it
like he had so many he wouldn’t miss the ones that we were getting.
But what he did, he just decided not to pull out so many packages
at once. He took maybe a couple of packs with him to work, and he
left one or two lying around, just to see who was really smoking his
cigarettes. So he came back and those cigarettes was open. He knew
he didn’t open them, because he had the ones he was going to smoke
with him. He said, “Well, one of these days I’m going to find out
definitely who’s getting these cigarettes.” There was a soap powder that
was made back then called Gold Dust. What he did was to leave just
three or four cigarettes out. He took the tobacco out of them, unbe-
knownst to us, and he put some of that Gold Dust in, and then he
put the tobacco back in the end of it. And man, I was the first one to
get one of ’em. And let me tell you, that was the worst thing that ever
happened. I got dizzy, then I had a headache. I felt like somebody was
walking around in my head with shoes with iron taps on the heel. I
never tried that again! He said to me, “Well, now I’ve found out who’s
been getting my cigarettes. What I’m going to do, when you turn the
age of fourteen, if you’re going to continue to smoke, I’m going to buy
you your first pack of cigarettes.” And that’s what he did.
I was able to eventually buy my own because they were about
twenty cents a pack. I wouldn’t buy nothing but Camels, and my
brothers, they would always buy the loose ones, you could get two
[ 8 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
for a nickel. But I was pretty much like a hustler, you know, I just
was ready to buy me a pack. My dad said once, “Well, I see you’re still
smoking. Give me a cigarette.” I said, “I’m going to give you a pack.”
He said, “No, I don’t want a whole pack, just give me one cigarette.”
I said, “No, I’m going to give you a whole pack. We’re wearing the
same shoe now. You bought my first pack, and if I could afford it,
don’t you think it’d be the right thing to do, to give you one?” He said,
“I never heard you talk like that before.” I said, “Well, if you want just
one cigarette, just take it, and then if you don’t want the pack, just say
so. But there they’re laying, over there by my case.” He said, “Well, I
do like that case.” I said, “I got two of them, you take that one and the
pack of cigarettes.” So ever since then, whenever I’d run out he’d throw
me a pack, and every time when he’d run out I’d throw him a pack.
I wasn’t able to read and write like my brothers and sister. The
type of education that I needed to learn, and things that I needed
to know in life, they didn’t teach it in public school. I wasn’t able to
see, because I had a juvenile cataract eye condition for quite a spell. I
had an operation the same year I started to school, about age seven.
They couldn’t do a whole lot, but they didn’t do what they could have
done either. A Doctor Bell, he took the cataract off my eye, but he left
parts of the roots still there. Later on, it grew back. When he took the
cataract off the first time, I got back to where I could see pretty good.
I could see better out of my left eye than I could my right, but I still
had to wear glasses to support both eyes. I have a nerve condition,
too, where my eyes dance a lot. Because of that, people have asked
me, “Why not have surgery again?” I said, “Well, you know, I haven’t
really thought about it,” but even now, I can see how to move about
and go different places where people who have the same handicap
don’t. Sometimes I can see what’s going on when people with perfect
vision don’t know what’s happening. So I had my eyes operated on
again when I was fourteen, in Memphis at the John Gaston Hospital.
[ 9 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
It was the charity hospital back then. I tell a lot of people when I go to
Memphis, “This is where my eyes were operated on, the first time I’d
ever been to Memphis.” It wasn’t no big deal, it was just one of those
things. Coming up from a poor background, I never let that stand
out in front of me like a lot of people, accepting self-pity and stuff
like that. I’ve never been that kind of way. From a child coming up, I
learned one thing: if you want a strong something to happen to you in
life, you gotta be strong.
I managed to survive a lot of times in places and in situations
where it wouldn’t help if people had their perfect vision. I’ve learned
to survive better than a lot of them, and it don’t look to me as if I’m
as misfortunate as they are. I feel I am blessed and just as fortunate as
a lot of people even when having a handicap. I look at it like self-pity
is something that I don’t need, and it’s something that I don’t stick
out in front of me. I look at it like, hey, we’re all human beings here,
so what is fair for the next person is just as fair for me too. A lot of
people look at it a little different, but it’s a true thing.
Ol l i e :
Sam’s mama, Celeste, loved to go fishing, but she never would carry Sam
to fish because he couldn’t see to get along in the woods. Celeste and me
would go hunting with Corrine Tatum, that’s another one of her lady
friends, and Ashton Jones and his wife. We’d have those blue jeans that
were fleece-lined, rubber boots, and Celeste had her flashlight and a little
old dog. Old Spot was his name. He didn’t bark when he was running a
coon, so she had to hang a bell on his neck. She’d hear that bell rattling
when he was running. When he got a coon up a tree, then he’d bark.
They used to go fishing on Friday nights, just like people be going out
on weekends nowadays. They’d take their pans and grease and coffee-
pot and they’d cook the fish right on the creek bank.
[ 10 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
O l li e :
I had fourteen head of hound dog that I used to go hunting with. I had a
.22 rifle I shot coon with, and I had an old double-barreled shotgun that
I deer-hunted with. It had two hammers on it. I had buckshot in one
barrel and a slug in the other. And all those dogs, I didn’t buy no dog food.
Celeste would cook potatoes and bread, cook up a bunch of stuff like that
for those dogs. Some of ’em I had tied up, some of ’em I didn’t. I had a
trough out where I’d feed ’em. Now that was her special dog, that little old
Spot. We’d go coon hunting and those hound dogs couldn’t find nothing.
But you could hear that bell rattling, “Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling!” And you
know he done struck a track then. Them other dogs, when they’d hear
that bell rattling like that, they’d take off, too. And he didn’t bark until he
treed up what he was running.
He was a smart dog, too. We had another dog; he was one of them
redbone hounds. Dan was his name. We had another one named
Flora. That one hung herself.
O l li e :
She was in heat, you know. I had her shut up in a crib so the dogs couldn’t
get to her, and I didn’t have the door fastened up enough. She crawled out,
and the chain, when she fell out, she just hung up there. I got up the next
morning and there she was, hanging out, done choked herself to death.
When we was fishing, we’d take a big can and get some water. To
catch them catfish, we’d set out hooks, find us a good long place and set
out fifteen, twenty big, long hooks. Get us some grub worms out of an
old rotten log, put ’em on them hooks. We’d fish in the daytime when the
creeks would be up, catch us some fish, cook ’em, and when night come,
we’d make some coffee. We’d be sitting out there cleaning them fish. We’d
have a meal and we’d be down there all night long cooking fish, catching
them yellow cats. Cook ’em as we catch ’em.
[ 11 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
Me and another boy that was raised up with Sam, White was his
name, me and him and Ashton Jones, one night we caught a hundred
yellow cat. A hundred of them, and there was some big fresh-water eels.
They a fresh-water fish, wasn’t no salt-water fish. And we caught a blue
cat with a forked tail. We caught a hundred of them yellow cats, I never
will forget it. And seven of them eels, big old blue eels, ’bout that long. I
know it was seven eels. I don’t think but one of them was a blue cat. We
had a whole load of fish coming out of there that Sunday morning.
Sam never did go fishing or hunting with us. He couldn’t see how to
get around much in the woods at night. But he’d sure enough go to them
clubs. We called ’em shops, they was in the country. We called ’em road-
houses in the city. Back then, you could play a record for a nickel. They’d
stay up all night long, playin’ and a-dancin’, whoopin’ and hollerin’,
singin’ and showin’ out.
Au thor :
What has it meant for you to have Sam turn out to be such a famous and
respected blues musician?
Ol l i e :
I’m glad he’s had fun. I’m sure enough wonderful proud that he’s got
people, his friends, seeing out after him like they do. There are things he’s
done for himself that I wouldn’t have been able to do for him.
W i l l i e Ea r l ( S am’s son):
I’m proud that he’s got as far as he has with whatever he’s been trying to
do with his life in music. I know he’s got to like it, because he’s been doing
it all these years, and he’s seen his ups and downs in it. I’m just glad that
he’s made it far as he has, to really see some success out of it. And I’m
glad I have his inspiration, having the background of somebody in my life
like him, to say that I have some influence in music and a father like him
[ 12 ]
EA R LY Y EA R S
who has kept going through the things that he’s had with his life. He kept
on. I hope he has great success in whatever he does from here on out. I’m
glad he ran into some people that really help him, that keep him going
in the right direction. He done seen a lot of hard times in music, and the
time when he got started, he probably wasn’t getting anything out of it
back then. I’m just happy that it’s paying off for him now. I wish him
more of the best of luck. I’m very proud of him.
[ 13 ]
C HA P TE R 2
COTTON FIELDS, RAILROADS,

AND SAWMILLS
While conditions in pre–World War II Jones County, Mississippi, were

marginally better for much of the rural black population than in other
places in the region, life for many of Sam’s contemporaries was neverthe-
less filled with long, hard work. Compared to the number of workers in
the more agricultural areas of the state, fewer people toiled in the fields
surrounding Sam’s hometown of Laurel. But the tradeoff for the some-
what better pay and working conditions in the mills and on the railroads
was frequently injury and sometimes death.
It wasn’t always fun then, but after I grew up I thought about it many
times, being on the farm and seeing how people pick cotton. I even
picked a few bolls myself. One thing that was real interesting was
when I was a water boy during cotton-picking season. I had this big
water carrier filled with cold water. People wouldn’t eat much during
the hot weather. The sun would be beating down, and a lot of them
would have umbrellas to keep their heads shaded. I would be walking
along and they would holler, “Water boy!” I had some cups on a big
rod, so if someone wanted some water, I would take this cup and pour
[ 14 ]
COT T ON F IELD S , R A ILR OA D S , A N D S AW M I L L S
the water for them. Some of them would have their own special
drinking cup, and I wouldn’t have to give them a cup every time.
I would just fill theirs up. Some would say, “I want a rock in the
bucket.” That meant a hard piece of ice.
On the second day I was doing this, I wasn’t feeling good. With
me getting tired, I could imagine how tired they would be. But that
was their only means of work at that time, to make what little money
they could picking cotton. The only thing they were interested in was
getting their sacks filled. They would run eleven-foot cotton sacks, to
ones even longer, maybe sixteen-foot, and they would fill those sacks
up. The first thing I thought of when I saw them was they was just
making horses out of themselves. Things can come to mind like that.
I said, “No, I don’t think I want to do this,” so I went and carried the
water. What would happen, by the time you thought you got it made,
finished with all that water, someone was always hollerin’ way across
the field, “Water boy! Water boy!” It was a big bucket with a dipper in
it, and if I were to empty it I would have to walk way back up to the
shed where they weighed the cotton and fill it up again and do the
same thing over.
They would start picking cotton at sunup because it would be
cooler. They could get more in that way, and by the time the sun rose
up to about twelve o’clock high, they would have picked a long ways
in the field. So I got going when they started in the morning, I’d say
about eight o’clock, and by twelve o’clock, I was worn out. They would
take a break for lunch, and then a lot of them would be interested in
getting back to the fields, trying to pick enough cotton to earn enough
money to make it. A lot of families would, I’d estimate, pick maybe
three hundred pounds apiece. There would be men, women, even
little kids, maybe ten or twelve years old, who were out of school. They
could pick only so much, so they’d have a littler sack, picking along-
side their parents. They would take their little amount and pour it into
[ 15 ]
COT T ON F IELD S , R A ILR OA D S , A N D SAW M I L L S
a bigger sack. And they also got paid for what they did. But a lot of
times, the sun would be so hot they wouldn’t let the kids come out.
The first picking would be right about August, and sometimes
they’d pick cotton way into October, but normally it’d be real heavy
in the months of August and September. After October, it’d be what
they call scrapping cotton. I used to stand and watch them and I’d say,
“These people must sure be tired doing this.” But even back then music
was in my head. I remember one day I went and made a couple of
rounds on the water wagon. I went like I was going to get some more
water to bring back to the field. I set that bucket and cup rack down,
and that’s when I left and went to Chicago. That was the last time I
was in the fields. I used to go back home on school break and see them
working like that in those fields, and I thought that was really a terrible
way to make a living.
When I was thirteen or fourteen, I would go to Chicago during the
summer. That would be during the time before cotton-picking sea-
son would start, and I would come back a couple of weeks before
school, right in the middle of picking season. To me that was a really
brutal way to make it. The farmers back then, after they picked so much
cotton, it was just like the plantation owners in the Delta. We didn’t live
in the Delta, but those rows in the fields, they seemed to be just as long
as the rows in a Mississippi Delta field. And it was just so hot back then.
When they would take the cotton to the gin, I used to go down there a
lot of times, just to see those big pipes and things. Some of them would
have a wagon, some of them had tractors pulling the wagon, and some
of them would have trailer trucks that was hauling. At the gin they’d
drop that pipe on the wagon, where the cotton was loosely set, and it
would suction it right up into the gin. They’d have the seeds going one
way and the cotton going another. The cotton would go into this big
thing called a hopper and they’d weigh it. They’d weigh it twice, and
when it got up to fourteen hundred pounds it would be one bale. Then
[ 16 ]
they’d put a metal band around it to lock it all together, and then they
would jam it over. They would write the person’s name on it, whose
farm it was. They’d get all this cotton weighed and when they’d settle
up with you, the guy would always say, “Well, you made about fourteen
bales, you know, about fourteen bales of cotton was your part.” But
actually you made more than that. They’d say, “You like to came out.”
That meant you almost picked as much as you were supposed to have
picked, to pay back all the money that you had borrowed from the farm
store.
That was their slogan, “You just about made it, but try harder next
year.” They’d be cheating you all the time; if you picked sixteen or
eighteen bales, they’d say you made fourteen. There wouldn’t be no
complainin’, though. They’d send these samples back to the farmer
who owned the farm. The farmer would say, “Well, you know, you like
to came out. For Christmas, you’re going to need some extra money.”
And he’d loan you three or four hundred dollars, and if you had a big
family and everybody needed a pair of shoes, that wasn’t going to do
you no good. You’d get credit at the company store, but you could
never work it off.
To help pass the time, they would be singing in the fields. They’d
sing these different songs, strung out all over the field. Sometimes
they’d be singing the same song; other times it would be different
songs. I never will forget, they would be just making up stuff to sing,
like about the rain. Like, “I’m not gonna work another day without
pay, and it seems like it’s not gonna rain no more,” because you knew
when it rained, regardless of how much cotton was in the field, you
couldn’t pick it because you had water in the rows. That is how a lot of
blues songs was written.
It was rough back then in the area where I lived, but it wasn’t as
rough as it was in the Mississippi Delta. By Laurel being a city, it was
a little bit better. They didn’t have as much cotton and stuff around
[ 17 ]
Laurel and Jackson. That’s where your cotton would come to. They
would have a gin, and they would have oil mills where they made cot-
tonseed oil. And you know, people didn’t get paid much for a lot of
the work they did back then, but they had better facilities then than
they do today. You take today’s railroads, it was the same way. When
my dad worked on the railroad, they had to do manual labor in put-
ting those rails down. I used to watch them doing that. It’d be ten men
on a rail, four on each side and one on each end. These men would
get under the rail, and they’d pick it up off the flatcar. That iron is
heavy, and they would be standing there holding that rail up. They
would pull the flatcar out from under, and they’d drop that thing
onto the crossties. Then the other guys who were standing there came
along with mauls and drove spikes in it. One guy would drop the plate
down, the plate that goes at the end of the tie, and then they’d put the
spike into that. The spikes were set to the tie, and then they’d get it all
lined up and everything.
Most railroads have white gravel; they’d take that gravel and put it
between the ties. That was really hard work, but they had better rail-
roads back then. The cotton fields and railroads went hand in hand.
You were a laborer regardless, and the only difference between the rail-
road and being a sharecropper picking cotton was the railroad was a
year-round, lifetime job. If you were a farmer, you were still just as
important as the next man, but you didn’t get paid. The railroad had
better pay than a lot of the jobs, because railroad has been federal for a
long time. Then, every year they had more fringe benefits. They had a
great thing going.
I don’t remember what year it was when they started discontinu-
ing a lot of passenger trains; then the federal government took it
over. They started doing a lot of railroad work by machine, and the
railroads and the maintenance of them wasn’t as good as it was when
the guys did it by hand from the real labor days. And you would all
[ 18 ]
the time hear tell of trains having a wreck or running into something,
but when a train had an accident back then in the early days, it was
at a crossing or something like that. Nowadays, they have accidents
with trains when they’re just riding right along, and there are plenty
more accidents now than there were back then, due to the fact that a
machine is doing the work a man used to do. Nowadays one man can
operate a machine to put down the spikes and stuff; they do it with
a machine that took six men out of work. Just one machine. And the
work that the machine does, it just isn’t as good as the work that man-
power did back in the days of the steam engine.
I still have a strong infatuation with trains. When I was going to
school, my mother would come out to Piney Woods and we’d go back
home on the train. I loved that. On one of those trips she told me,
“Son, now you’re a big boy. I’m going to ask you something, but you
got to promise me that you won’t get scared.” So I said, “What’s that?”
She said, “Suppose you come home on the train by yourself?” I said, “I
would love that!” That was my first experience, and after that I would go
everywhere by myself, and ever since I always had this thing for trains. I
haven’t done it since I’ve been living here in Dallas, but I used to go out
and stand by the railroad and watch the passenger trains go by.
There was a friend of mine, an older man named Sid Edwards,
who worked driving one of those big trucks that hauled bulldoz-
ers and road graders. He was working with a construction company
out of Memphis, but he’d come home to Jackson every weekend.
Sometimes he would go to some parts of Louisiana to deliver on
Sunday evening so it all could be together, ready for them to start
work Monday morning. I said, “Man, you’ve got a lot of gears and
shifts in there.” He said, “Yeah, this is what is called a twin-stick. It has
thirteen forward gears and another with a split shift.” He told me that
when he started changing gears, he’d get up to five, and when he’d kick
in that “Road Ranger” he could get up to speed.
[ 19 ]
Not far from where we lived they had a gravel pit, and Sid used to
drive what was called a “dirt train.” Sid worked in this gravel pit where
they shifted sand and gravel out onto the trains to go to different areas.
He would drive the train, switch the cars in to be loaded, and then he
would bring them up to the main line for the locomotives to pick them
up and transfer them to where they needed to be. He taught me a lot
about driving a train. A lot of people look at it as being hard, but it’s
a real simple thing. All of it works by levers. Once you get it started,
you have a lever that you push to a certain mark, and that picks up the
speed to how fast you want to go. I learnt from that, and when he had
some time off I followed him near everywhere he went. When I’d be
home from Piney Woods, my mother would fix me a sack lunch just
like I would be going off to work. Sid would pick me up in the morning,
and I would just follow him around all day. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be
allowed to be on the job with him, but he got it straight with his super-
visor that he would take care of me and see that nothing happened.
Being around Sid got me even more interested in music. I used to
love the way he whistled. He was about one of the best whistlers I ever
heard. He could whistle most any song, like “The Tennessee Waltz” or
“Blue Moon of Kentucky,” and he would whistle a lot of blues songs.
He could even whistle the sound of a bird. All through the day when
I’d be around with him, he’d be doing his work and then he’d whistle
tunes for me. He loved teacakes, so when we would stop by the house,
Mama would fix him teacakes with ginger and cinnamon in them.
Mama would ask him, “Sid, do you have your lunch?” and she’d fix
him a big paper bag of those teacakes. He kept a big jug of water up in
the cab of that engine, and that’s all he would do, eat those cakes and
drink that water. He would make the day like that.
If I didn’t see him right away in the morning I would really be out
of focus. Sometimes he’d be late coming by, and I’d wonder where he
was. We’d go on, and he would show me different things about the
[ 20 ]
train. When he would get all of his loads ready, it wouldn’t take him
long, because he had a big steam shovel on the end of the loader that
they had on the train. He’d take a couple of scoops and fill up a truck
or a boxcar. He showed me how to start it and where the gearshifts
were, and I learnt from there how to crank up all that stuff. His thing
was, when he was going to show you how to do something, the first
thing he would do was to show you how to start and stop it in case you
were going to run into something, or if you weren’t going in the right
direction. He would show you what lever would keep it level and on a
straight path. All that grew up in me, and I learnt pretty good after that.
With Sid and another guy who worked at a sawmill, we never did
have to worry about toys and food at Christmas time. Them and my
dad was real good friends, and they would get fruit and toys for us.
That was a happy time for me. But it’s strange how things can happen.
I had been home from school for two days in the summertime. One
morning, instead of coming by the house, Sid was running pretty late
so he went straight on to work. Something just didn’t let him come by
to get me on that particular day. After a while we heard a big explo-
sion. A boiler had blown up on the train he was driving, and he was
killed. If he had picked me up on that day, I would have been right
there with him. Boy, that was a great loss. I think about that old man,
as long as it’s been, I think about him right today.
There’s something else I never will forget. Ben Maxwell, he was
a sawmill guy. He could fix anything or do any kind of work around
a sawmill that needed to be done. He lit the boiler, he worked in the
saw shop sharpening saws, but his main job was running the head
saw. When a log was cut into lumber, he had those saws where he sat
on a stool and he took a piece of lumber and put it over on one side
for two-by-fours. On the other side he may be cutting two-by-sixes or
whatever. And then he ran a cut-off saw. All the saws were around him
on that big stool. When the lumber came off the logs, they came out
[ 21 ]
of a big house where they have big, giant saws. When the logs come
through the door, they just rip ’em open with the rip saws and then
the other saws took over.
One day, Ben got his leg cut off. Wasn’t noticing what he was doing,
and it would be so noisy in that mill they had to use shortwave radios.
Somebody would be on the conveyor belt when the lumber was
coming off it, and if they weren’t watching what was going on, he
would holler, “One coming!” Then they would know to move back
and get ready to mark it. They would cut the ends of ’em off, put ’em
on another conveyor belt, and then they’d go out and stack ’em. A guy
would come through with a forklift and they’d take ’em and stack ’em
in the yard until they had a big pile of ’em. And that mill didn’t throw
away nothing. The sawdust went into a big vat that looked like a boxcar.
They had some kind of chemical that had big pipes blowing it into the
vat where the sawdust was. It would turn that sawdust red and it would
be just like a powder, so they would make floor sweeper out of it. The
only thing that they wouldn’t save would be the bark of a tree.
So this guy Ben Maxwell was cutting some boards one day and
wasn’t noticing what he was doing. As long as he’d been working there,
one of those saws just cut his leg off. He reached down and pulled it up
onto that durn conveyor belt. He hollered to them, “If you see anything
red, that’s part of me!” Cut his durn leg off as smooth as my hand, just
above his boot top. The guys rushed to him and said they were going
to take him to the doctor. Ben said, “No, I’ve got to work.” They said,
“But man, your leg is cut off!” He said, “Damn, it wasn’t no good no
way, wasn’t nothing but a botheration.” They knew he was in hysterics,
and they grabbed him up off of that stool, and he was fighting them
off. They knew then that there was really something wrong with him.
The accident wasn’t the cause of his death, but he died a few years later
when he got to where he couldn’t do anything more with just one leg. It
must’ve been that it just worried him to death.
[ 22 ]
C HA P TE R 3
PINEY WOODS
In 1909 educator Dr. Laurence C. Jones founded the Piney Woods School
in rural Rankin County, Mississippi, a few miles south of Jackson. He
began the school with a handful of children and held his first classes in
an old split-log sheep shed. The shed remains preserved on the campus
as a historical exhibit and still contains the ancient piano that was used
to teach music. Today the nationally recognized school occupies over two
thousand wooded acres that includes a five-hundred-acre working farm
and a campus of classroom buildings, dormitories, and activity centers.
Piney Woods graduates small classes of about twenty students every year,
and almost all of them move on to college or careers in the military. The
school has an outstanding reputation for academics and has been fea-
tured twice on the CBS news program 60 Minutes. When Sam began his
schooling there in 1947, Piney Woods was also home to the state school
for the blind.
Piney Woods was not like any ordinary school; it was more like a trade
school. Some people looked at Piney Woods as being a correctional
facility or a prison, but it wasn’t. It was a school of higher learning, in
a country life. Whatever trade you wanted to learn, you could decide
on what you wanted to be in life, like a brick mason, a carpenter, a
[ 23 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
cement finisher, or a musician. If you wanted to be a doctor, they even

had a hospital where you could learn that. They had any type of work
that you wanted to do right there. They had to travel off the campus
for only a few things. The buildings were built by the hands of the staff
and the students. They grew a lot of their own food and had cows for
milk. The students learned how to help pick the food crops and how
to help tend the cows. That was part of their trade and their learning
as they grew up. Of course I was interested in music, and that is what
I mostly studied from age ten up to where I am now. It was music that
was the cause of me knowing what two and two is. Even today, I look
back on my life and the early years and see where music has played a
very important part.
One thing that was interesting about the school was that we never
had any performers to come on campus to do our social activities. The
band was large enough so that we played our own social functions
and gatherings. Sometimes in the summer we would sign up everyone
to do it. We would travel across the country with the Piney Woods
Band Glee Club. That’s where I learned a lot about singing, doing a lot
of gospel music and such. Back in the forties it would get super cold
indoors compared to what it is now with modern heat, so we would
sing gospel music in the dormitory. What I remember is that we had
only steam from the radiators to keep us warm. We would get in a
group in a room and do a lot of this singing just to keep from freezing.
Ol l i e Mye r s:
When he was going to school at Piney Woods, Sam’s mother, Celeste, left
to go out to visit him when the buses were about to go on strike. She had
sold a calf and bought a Smith & Wesson .38, I never will forget that.
She was on the bus, looking in her bag for something, and she had her
flashlight on the side. The bus driver told her he couldn’t stop at Piney
Woods, because the strike was going to start in Jackson at midnight, and
[ 24 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
it was quarter to twelve then. She said, “Right here is where I’m going.”
He said, “Yes, I know where Piney Woods is, but I’m not supposed to
stop.” And she said that when she was looking through her bag, the driver
spotted her pistol and flashlight. He said, “Well now, you know letting
you off here will be at your own risk, but I think you’re able to take care
of yourself!”
Unlike some of the kids at Piney Woods who got into mischief and
stuff, I was sort of a quiet kid. I really didn’t want to go to the school,
and I tried several times to run away. I didn’t know any better. As a
matter of fact, I didn’t even know where to go. I just didn’t want to be
where I was. They put a gentleman with me, a Mr. Jonas Brown. We all
called him “J. B.” He was there to find out what I really liked or what I
didn’t like about the school. He would ask from time to time how I
was doing. I didn’t think about it until later, after I found out what
I really liked about Piney Woods. We were standing out in front of
the dormitory one day, just talking. I guess I was about ten years old.
I always wanted somebody to read to me, so he was getting ready to
read to me, and I heard the band rehearsing, getting ready for a foot-
ball game. I heard this sound that really struck my attention. I asked,
“What’s that?” J. B. said, “Do you like it?” I said, “Yes, indeed! I like to
hear those horns.” He said, “That’s the band playing, getting ready for
the game.” I asked, “Would they say anything if I went up there? I’d
like to go and listen to it.” He said, “No, you can go anywhere on the
campus that you want to. Do you want to go?” I said, “I sure would.”
So we went up there and walked in when they were getting ready to
take a break.
There was this young student named Anna Mae Williams who
blew trumpet. I never will forget, after J. B. introduced me to Mr.
Charles McGilvery, the band director, I went over to her and sat down.
I said, “What is that?” She told me, “A trumpet.” I asked, “Can I see it?”
[ 25 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
She said, “Sure. Do you want to learn to blow this one?” I said, “I’d like
to, but right now I just want to listen.” She told me then, “You can’t
sit here and listen and not take part in it.” J. B. said, “It looks like you
done found a friend.” They started to play a march called “The Stars
and Stripes Forever,” and I said, “Boy, oh boy, I wonder could I be able
to do that someday?” She said, “Yes, but you’ll have to practice.” I did
have sense enough to know that. I said, “I’m not going to bother you
all; I just love to listen.” Mr. McGilvery told me I could stay as long
as I wanted. Between songs Anna Mae would show me her horn and
let me hold it. I said, “I sure would like to be able to blow like you’re
blowing, one day.”
I never will forget, she said, “If you come tomorrow, I’ll let you
play this horn. It’s a school horn; I’ll bring my own horn and we’ll
blow along together. But you can’t blow too loud because you don’t
know the song.” I went back to the dormitory, and that stayed in my
head the whole time. I couldn’t wait until the next day came. Jonas
Brown told the headmaster, “Well, music is what he likes. He likes the
band.” J. B. came to me that night and said, “What you’ve got to do, if
you want to play in the band, you’ve got to learn something else to go
along with that. So whatever they tell you to do about your books and
your lessons, you’ve got to do it. Then you’ll be all right.” I said, “I will.
I’ll do that.” He said, “It’s not enough just to play in the band, you’ve
got to learn your other lessons and let it stay with you.” I started get-
ting my lessons real good after that. This was a test to see what I really
enjoyed in school, and it was the music. But I had to get my other
things together before I could really do what I wanted to do.
Anna Mae brought the horn the next day and do you know,
instead of just learning, I found that it was a gift that I had, to be in
music. She showed me how to focus my lips on the mouthpiece; she
showed me how to make the different keys and notes and how to
shape my fingers. They started playing a song called “White Heat.”
[ 26 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
I messed up that one. The next one was called “Symphony C.” It had a
big-band sound and I almost got that one. Mr. McGilvery said, “Well,
what are we going to do next?” I hollered out, “‘ The Stars and Stripes
Forever’!” and I thought to myself, “Oh, my goodness, I messed up.”
They all looked and said, “Oh yeah, we can do that.” They thought I
was just saying something, that I was just going to listen. Then, some-
how, when they started, “Da-da-da, da-da-da, da-da-da,” I was playing
that on the trumpet, and they all tricked me. Everybody looked right
at me, but they started playing quiet. I was being heard by all of them,
and after I played that part down, they all came up with a big, strong
rhythm and played their parts, and then they started laughing. I said
to myself, “Oh, they’re laughing at me.” Mr. McGilvery walked over to
me and tapped me on the shoulder and said, “My dear boy, you did
good.” And from then on I got in the swing with the rest of them. And
I thank that girl, Anna Mae Williams, wherever she is, right today, for
me to be able to do that. She was a real good friend. That part of my
schooling was where I really learnt the scales of music, listening to it
by ear since I couldn’t read the notes on the sheet music.
We used to hear a lot of radio there at the school. Jonas Brown
had a radio that we would listen to. Jackson had one radio station we
would listen to in the evenings. It was called WJDX. They had a show
called In the Groove. Woodie Assaf used to broadcast that show every
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 5:15. And then they had another
one that would come on Tuesdays and Thursdays called Jive Parade,
done by a guy called Alan B. Keaton. We would listen to this on J. B.’s
radio just before we went to supper in the evenings. We couldn’t wait
to hear all these old standards. Jonas Brown would take another stu-
dent, Andrew Oliver, and me to Jackson to buy records. They had a big
record store on Farish Street called Hardwell and Cook’s. We would
go and get records for twenty-five cents back then, 45s and 78s. They
didn’t have the 331/3s, the long-play albums, yet.
[ 27 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
We would get a lot of those records and come back and listen to
them, even during the daytime between our classes. I was blowing
trumpet pretty good by then, I thought, and I went and got a har-
monica, one of the plastic ones. I would listen to some of the music
by John Lee Williamson, who was the original Sonny Boy Williamson.
And the Big Three Trio, Calvin Boze, T-Bone Walker, Louis Jordan, all
that music, we’d listen to it. I would take a harmonica, and with what I
already knew about music at the time, I would try to find the key that
that song was in. I’d find a harp with that key, and I would try to blow
along with the songs. It took a long time. I’d collected a lot of them,
because I would just go and buy a bunch of them and try to find a key
for a particular song. So that worked for a while, and that’s how I hap-
pen to blow the harmonica today.
Piney Woods was just like it says, Piney Woods Country Life
School. You didn’t have to be a special ed person to attend there. Some
people looked at it as being like a prison, and I heard a lot of parents
tell their kids, “All right, if you keep doing this or that, I’m going to
send you to Piney Woods.” Well, that’s disgusting. It wasn’t like that at
all. Piney Woods was a school of higher learning. The reason I say that
was because during those times a lot of public schools had their trials
and tribulations and kids were going to school and really not learning
nothing, just like today’s kids.
At the time when I started, Piney Woods was also a place that
housed people who were blind. They didn’t get no state funding or
nothing. The gentleman who founded the school, Dr. Laurence C.
Jones, he would go and make speeches for Piney Woods projects.
That’s what they were supported on. It was more like a boarding
school instead of a state school. And where I fit in, being visually
impaired, that’s what was happening at Piney Woods before the state
took over the school for the blind. Now they have the workshops at
the Mississippi Industries for the Blind in Jackson for the people
[ 28 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
who are visually impaired. Back during that time a lot of handicapped
people would be on the streets shaking a cup as I would call it,
what panhandlers do today. I get pretty angry when I see people
do that.
Piney Woods always has been integrated. You had white, you had
the Jewish, you had gentiles, you had Mexicans. In Piney Woods,
they had everybody. It wasn’t a white and black thing, and it wasn’t a
Mexican and a Jewish thing. Everybody was declared as one. But here’s
what a lot of people put a blanket over Piney Woods about. You went
there to school, you did your studies, and the boys didn’t mingle with
the girls like a lot of schools let do. The girls had their social gather-
ings, and the boys had theirs. They had what were called matrons who
did their job as they were supposed to have done, and it’s the only
school that I know of where there wasn’t any babies born like you have
in a lot of schools today. You pick up your paper or you turn on your
TV and watch your six o’clock news, and you see where some girl at a
school, it sounds sick, but she had a little boy or girl and stuffed it in
the trashcan. You didn’t see that there at Piney Woods. My mother’s
cousin, Ella Pearl Gant, was a matron of girls at Piney Woods for many
years. She’s buried right there at the school’s cemetery, over by where
Dr. Jones and his wife are buried.
They had a few teachers who said, “I’m doing this just because
it’s a job.” But it was tough to find a job back then, and you had more
people of differing nationalities to compete with. If you are a gradu-
ate of Piney Woods and you had it in your résumé or if you just
mentioned the name “Piney Woods,” you got a job. It was a school
of higher learning that was recognized in music, like the schools of
music at Berklee and Juilliard and North Texas State and the American
Conservatory in Chicago. When you went to hear the commencement
exercise, you would see the girls in their blue skirts and white blouses
and the guys in their khaki suits with black ties and shined shoes, like
[ 29 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
the military. The athletic director, he had been in the military; his
name was Lieutenant Colonel Payne.
All the kids, they loved him because he wasn’t one of those
instructors who was there just because it was a job. He would play
and have fun with the kids. He’d be thinking about stuff he did in the
military. He may call the guys out about four o’clock in the afternoon,
between classes and dinner, and have them marching, or he might
have all 250 boys lined up in front of the dormitory, counting, saying
the numbers, like “One,” and the next guy, “Two,” and then “Three,”
and the next guy “Four,” on like that, sounding off. He’d walk up and
one might be standing there like he didn’t want to be bothered, and
he’d say to him, “What’re you doing, looking all sour for?” He may
grab him and whirl him around the shoulders and kick him in his
behind, and they’d do the same thing to him. They’d all jump and
grab him and do the same thing. He was happy most when they’d do
that. Like a guy’d be standing up, talking to a girl, and he’d walk up
and, he ate ice cream all the time, he’d have an ice cream cone in his
hand, and he’d walk up and just stand there and say, “You wonder why
I’m standing here? Well, you know, trouble me.” And then they’d all
just grab him, take their belts and whip him, and just kick him.
And do you know, that Mister Tough Guy, the kids knew what he
was about. He was crazy about the kids. He’d always be playing and
going on with them, and then, they knew when he meant business
as an instructor. He boxed and wrestled with the kids, and some of
them was just as good as he was at that sort of thing. That was just his
lifestyle. I don’t know whether he’s living now or not. Last I heard, he
had married a girl from Kosciusko named Anna Bee Foster, and they
moved to Memphis. They had separated and he was operating a shoe-
shine stand in Memphis, the last I heard.
Colonel Payne showed us how to go through a belt line. The way
he had it set up, he had about eight or ten guys, standing and have
[ 30 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
belts, and they send you through the belt line, but if a man hit you
more than once, they pulled his behind out of the line, and they’d
have fifteen guys to give him a belt lashing. Boy, he was a tough guy.
And that’s why, when I went to Chicago, besides music, that’s what
gave me the idea of taking defense training for myself. I used to work
out at the Joe Louis Gym, doing all this judo and all these different
fancy handholds and stuff. Not that I’ve ever had to use it in any kind
of way, but it’s better to know it and not need it than to need it and
not have it.
I had a bunch of sweethearts when I was coming up at Piney
Woods. Even though music was my main thing at Piney Woods, I was
playing football, trying to prove to a girl that I was a hero. She wound
up marrying some guy that was studying to be a cement mason. I did
all right through practice, then when we got out on the field for the
first game, I like to got my neck broke. When the guy tackled me, they
fell down on my behind. I was a running back. Boy, oh, boy, I was sup-
posed to be pretty fast, but I was slow that day.
During the summer some of the band would travel all across the
country as an all-girls orchestra, as part of their education. I was the
only guy in the group, there to help out with things. We were traveling
to Washington State, and while we were in Oregon, there was a guy who
shot at a deer. It was up in the mountains, and just as he cracked that
rifle, the bus went by. The girls was getting ready for bed, and he shot
this girl, Willie Christine Jackson. Shot her in the leg. That man had a
Jeep. That’s the way they hunt out in Oregon, they have those Jeeps in
the woods. I was sitting up in the cab with the driver, George Bishop.
It was one of those big rigs, pulling a trailer bus, and them girls was
crying, hollering, and going on, and that man know he had shot some-
body, but he didn’t know who it was. He must have known that moun-
tain road, because he came by us, and when we got down the mountain
he was there waiting, he had blockaded the road with his Jeep.
[ 31 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
The first thing he did, he opened up the trailer wanting to know

who it was that he shot. And the girl who got shot kept trying to get
ready for bed, she didn’t even know she was shot herself, and boy, that
was a sad time for all of us. He told us he was going to contact her par-
ents and let them know who he was and said whatever it would cost,
he would take care of her hospital and medical bills. He told us what
hospital to take her to, and better yet, he would lead us there. And boy,
the girls was crying and going on and wondering was she going to live.
But she just got shot in the leg. The bullet didn’t stop and went all the
way through. It would have broke her bones if it had lodged, but it was
the soft part of the flesh where it went in. After we got to the hospital
he said, “I want her to be able to walk just as good or better than she
did before this happened.” Whatever she wanted while she was in the
hospital, she didn’t have nothing to worry about.
He was some kind of owner of a chemical company or maybe a
mill that did redwood and timber. He must have been a wealthy man,
because he paid for every day that she was in the hospital. He always
stayed in touch and made sure that the girls who was traveling with
us and the bus driver knew how she was doing. And when we saw her
again, it was about two weeks after school was set back in. She came
back to school and everybody was glad to see her. She was telling us
all how she missed us. Could you imagine, if you were a little person,
about a hundred pounds and all these people were hugging you and
going on, so glad to see you? I said, “Well, heck, this is the first time
y’all have ever been this close together when you wasn’t on stage.” Boy,
they ruled me out then!
My first great love was Anna Mae Williams. She was my dear
sweetheart. She was older than me, but I had a crush on her then, and
when we could get the drop on the teacher, we would be together like
a hot date. Her parents lived in Jackson and she finished Piney Woods
and started working at the Smith Robertson School in Jackson. Now
[ 32 ]
PIN EY WOOD S
it’s a museum for a lot of historic people, but back then it was the first
school for black students in Jackson. After I had been to Chicago and
all around there and overseas I came back to Jackson. I used to live on
Davis Street and she was up the street from me. And boy, when I heard
she had gotten married and moved to Gary, Indiana, I said, “Now
what can you say? She should have been my wife.” But, heck, I wasn’t
into getting married or nothing like that then. But I had a crush on
her from day one. I haven’t heard from her now in quite a while.
But she had taught me something. If it hadn’t been for her, I never
would have been a trumpet player. In 2002 we played the Medgar
Evers Homecoming for Charles Evers down in Mississippi, and I
looked high and low for that girl. I hadn’t seen her in about forty-five
years or longer. I liked her because she was real tall and pretty. But I
wound up being a bachelor, and I’ve been one ever since. Course, I’ve
had my share of shacking up with women, though. That was just the
way it was for me.
[ 33 ]
C HA P TE R 4
GOING TO CHICAGO
The lure of playing music soon called to Sam from the big city of
Chicago, as it had called to so many black musicians from Mississippi.
But by 1951, when Sam was ready to move north to attend the American
Conservatory of Music in Chicago, the scene had changed, and new
opportunities abounded for the postwar generation of southern
blacks. Unlike his elder relatives, Sam wasn’t looking for work to escape
from the plantations and mills of the Deep South. Instead he planned
to further his music education in two ways: by studying in the classroom
and by going to school in the clubs and on the rough streets of the South
Side.
Sam learned his chops from watching legends of Maxwell Street like
Buddy Guy, Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Little Walter, Wayne Bennett,
and a man who remains to this day a great friend of Sam’s, Robert
Lockwood, Jr. Sam soon matured to the point where he was sitting in
with local bands. And then in 1952, he met a man who would loom large
in his life for the next ten years. That man was Elmore James.
When I left Mississippi for Chicago I was about fifteen. I had finished
my studies at Piney Woods and considered myself to be one of the
blessed in my time and area, to have received a scholarship to attend
[ 34 ]
G OIN G T O CH ICA G O
the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago. That’s where I met a

lot of the musicians who are heroic to a lot of the newcomers of today.
I lived with a cousin of mine first off, but you know how young-
sters are, you want to get out and be making your own money and get
your own place, and that’s what I did. I was a music major, so while I
attended school there, I went through a lot of instruments that I had
dealt with at Piney Woods. For me, it was just a brush-up on them. I
played piano and trombone a little bit, but drums and trumpet was
my main influences in music. I played the drums for a while, and then
trumpet too, and took the other two instruments along as a general
music thing. It worked out pretty good for a while, and then I just
went ahead and started catching gigs with different musicians. I played
the drums when I could, and did less and less on the trumpet. But I
still know the scales on the instrument.
I kind of got into blues by accident. I had started out with the
trumpet and drums, and I liked the big band sound, horns and all that
stuff. I listened to a lot of records, and the people who I listened to
back then were Louis Jordan, T-Bone Walker with the guitar, Wynonie
Harris, and then the rest came natural. I kind of gradually got into the
blues after I had been spending time in Chicago. I would always rely
on learning, getting a great inspiration from the people I would see
doing the things I was taught to do.
Like many of the musicians in Chicago, I played on the street.
One of the most famous places in Chicago at that time to play was
Maxwell Street. Robert Nighthawk, the Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters,
Little Walter, Robert Lockwood, Jr., Hound Dog Taylor, the whole host
of musicians played Maxwell Street. They had matinees on Saturday
and Sunday. That was a big thing in the whole area of Chicago because
a lot of the musicians that you heard on records, they played on the
streets during the daytime to pay their rent and stuff because they
made a lot more doing that than when they was playing the clubs.
[ 35 ]
They would play the clubs at night and some of them, if they had a
recording session to do, they would divide it between the clubs, the
recording studios, and doing the street scene.
I jumped right into the street scene because it didn’t matter what
age you was. It was a fight between being a kid going to school during
the day and playing in a club like a grown-up at night. But the class-
room, and playing on the street, it was a whole different thing. I would
play the street when I would be out of my class in the afternoon, and
then if I didn’t have a heavy assignment or nothing to do, then I would
play a club at night. A lot of the students did this, and there was a lot
of music played on the school campus. A lot of the guys, that’s all they
would do. They’d go to school by day and play the clubs at night, and
then a lot of them had just certain days when they would go to school.
The rest of the time they would have off and do what they wished to do.
That was basically the same as I was, but I really didn’t have any
real strict assignments that I couldn’t get out right away because I
had a time of day when I would do certain things. After my classes, if
I didn’t go right to the street scene, I’d do what studying I had to do.
Then I’d go play the streets for maybe a couple or three hours, then go
back and do my studying again, then go into a club with a guardian. It
wasn’t like going to clubs today. Someone in the band would go with
me to play, as a guardian to see that nothing happened to me and to
vouch for me to get into the clubs.
It wasn’t much of a problem to be without good vision in the
school. In the music classes, they would play the arrangement for me,
and I could do most or maybe all of the stuff from memory. It would
look hard, but by me being surrounded by music like I have for the
biggest portion of my life, well, it was easy. I was quick to catch on,
knowing what the tempos was and the part that I was supposed to
play. It really wasn’t a big deal. But the biggest problem that I had was
playing music with bands that wasn’t equally as good as I was, you
[ 36 ]
know what I mean? When they had the sheet music right there in
front of them, it looked as if they could just go ahead and jump right
into it, because it was right there in front of them to read. But a lot of
them would get sidetracked on that. And then a lot of times I would
have to catch myself. A lot of them would be wondering how was I
doing it, and they’d be concentrating on what I was doing versus what
they were supposed to be doing. Saying how could I do this and do it
just as good or better than they were doing, and I couldn’t see how to
read it.
But even nowadays, people look at it like seeing is believing. Well,
that’s true. But if you depend on your hearing, that’s a big, important
part also. If you hear an arrangement, you lock that into your mind,
then the next few bars of the song or the rest of the song, you have all
that locked in, and you don’t forget that.
I couldn’t have gone on to a musical career if I hadn’t attended
the American Conservatory of Music. I could have played music, but
I couldn’t have achieved the career that I have over the years. Piney
Woods was at the beginning, and the American Conservatory played
a big part in it. It still is one of the most powerful schools for musical
knowledge. I was there for four years, but I didn’t have any particular
instructors that stick out as being that important, because I looked at
it like instructors were just being instructors, doing their job.
Of the other students there who had an impact on me, the late
Wayne Bennett sticks out. He came from Oklahoma City. He played
guitar with Bobby Bland and a lot of other guys, and he did some
work with Elmore James. We were close friends. Lou Rawls wasn’t a
student there, but he was a good friend of mine. Chicago was where
he was born and reared. And he was really into gospel. He went out
to the West Coast and sang with a group called the Pilgrim Travelers.
He would travel back and forth to Chicago from Los Angeles. And
there was Sam Cooke, from Clarksdale, Mississippi. At that time, he
[ 37 ]
was singing with a group called the Soul Stirrers. Then they renamed
themselves the Chicago Soul Stirrers. He and Lou Rawls were two of
my best friends.
In March 1952, I happened to be over at a club called Silvio’s when
Elmore James dropped in. He had just recorded a Robert Johnson
tune that was a big one for him, “Dust My Broom.” He was working
on some more material, but he couldn’t get a drummer to do some
gigs with him there in Chicago. A lot of the people who recorded with
Elmore had day gigs and recording sessions already booked, so they
wouldn’t be able to make a tour with him doing the Chittlin’ Circuit.
So this friend of mine, Odie Payne, he told Elmore, “Now I know a
gentleman from Mississippi, he might would take the gig, but you
got to treat him right,” just like that. Elmore said, “Yeah, man, a guy
from Mississippi, you know, naturally I’ll look out for him, ’cause
that’s where I’m from.” Odie said, “Well, he could very easily play your
stuff. He blows trumpet, too, but you’re in search of a drummer.” Odie
asked me did I want to take a shot at it, and I said, “Well, I’ll blast a
few with him.” So I sat in with him, and that’s how I got the gig, play-
ing with Elmore off and on throughout the rest of his whole career.
I did gigs with Elmore for the next four years. We worked around
in Chicago and sometimes we went out on the Chittlin’ Circuit. Even
though I was sixteen or seventeen at this time, I was pretty big for my
age, and when me and the band would walk in together, nobody paid
me much attention. Sometimes, a club owner might ask about me if he
looked and thought I might be a little young. One of the band would
vouch for me with a piece of paper saying he was my guardian, and
after we paid the union fee, everybody was happy. I never did have to
sit out a gig because somebody said I was too young to be in the joint.
As time went by, I guess I was about eighteen or nineteen, I
formed my own group called the Windy City Six. I had sat in with
different people during a few club dates by then, playing drums and
[ 38 ]
singing. Then I quit playing the drums, and I sang and blew trumpet
for a while. We were doing tunes that Louis Jordan and T-Bone Walker
did. They were two favorite guys that was in my corner, that stuck in
my mind as far as being up into the music world.
We were playing a weekend gig at a club called the White Rose out
in Phoenix City, near Chicago, when a well-dressed gentleman walked
backstage after we took a break. He booked the clubs and he was also
a well-known DJ. His name was Sid McCoy. He came back and said,
“Young man, T-Bone Walker was here about six weeks ago. Louis
Jordan was here six months ago. Everybody remembers that. You are
here tonight and supposedly the whole weekend. Who are you? Oh,
I know you are Sam Myers, but musically, who are you?” That put
another thorn in my crown, when he asked me that. He said, “Well,
I just wanted to give you some food for thought.”
I went back and got the guys together in the dressing room.
I said, “Now, what we need to do here, y’all play like you been playing
all along, we’re not really going to be faking nothing. Play the same
song, ‘Chicken Shack,’ and just look to me for the words.” I did that
and made it into my own song. Another one of them I did, and I very
seldom do it now, it’s called, “These Young Girls Are About to Drive
Me Wild.” It was an upbeat thing, swing, and the people went for it.
So we did that same show the whole weekend, and on the last night
I was coming off stage, getting ready to go back to the dressing room,
and Mr. McCoy stopped me in the middle of the floor. He caught my
arm and said, “Young man, let’s go back to the dressing room, I’ve got
some things I want to pull your coat about.” When we got back there,
he said, “You did good. What I told you Friday night, it was just some-
thing for you to think about. But it seems like you’ve got everything
together. Now, we were talking with your manager and we’ve got you
another booking here starting next week. We’ve got you three weeks
in a row.” I said, “Oh, really?” He said, “Yes. What I meant about the
[ 39 ]
music that you were doing, regardless as to what you do by somebody

else, it’s not yours unless you add your own touch to it. You can’t make
it your own by doing it the same way somebody else did it. You got to
put your own thing to it.”
And that stayed with me up until the age that I am now, which is
seventy years old. And I’ve passed that advice along to a lot of musi-
cians: regardless as to what you do by somebody else, or whatever
tunes you cover, unless you roll it out in a blanket of your own, you
haven’t done nothing.
[ 40 ]
C HA P TE R 5
CHICAGO AND
JACKSON FAMILIES
Sam’s career as an itinerant bluesman didn’t lend itself to much of a

“normal” family life. But he still found time to fall in love once or twice
and even fathered four children. Unfortunately, he has not kept in con-
tact with most for them; he has even lost touch with his son Willie Earl,
who lived in Mobile, Alabama, with Sam’s father, Ollie, until Ollie had a
stroke in 2003. Willie Earl has had some problems with the law, and Sam
has lost track of him.
There’s a girl who lives in Chicago who I know cared more for me than
I really did for her, not that I didn’t care for her. Her name is Doris
Grisham. We got a little girl together, Sandra Faye, that’s our daugh-
ter’s name. I have four kids all told. I haven’t been feeding to the
masses a lot, you know; I’ve planted a few seeds and they came up.
That’s as close as I ever came to getting married, with Doris. I was too
much of a hoofin’ horse back then.
I never see my children anymore now. I haven’t been in touch with
any of my kids in a long time. It’s kind of a little hard for me, since I
[ 41 ]
CH ICA G O A N D JA CK S ON FA M I L I E S
don’t deal with e-mails and with writing a lot, and a lot of their tele-
phone numbers I don’t even have. That’s just the way it goes.
The oldest is Sandra. She should be a little over fifty. She was
about the only one who I was really close to. She grew up in Chicago,
and later she went to California and Stanford University and became
an accountant. The second child was a boy. His name is Willie Earl.
His mother was just a chick I was hanging out with. She just got
caught up in it and throwed him in my basket, you know. His mama
was named Willie Mae Fleming. She’s dead now. He’s somewhere
down in Alabama or Mississippi. I haven’t talked to him in a long
time. Those two kids are the only ones I was for. The other two, I
know them but I don’t ever be around them. Their mothers don’t
blame me and I don’t blame them. So I’ll just leave it with Sandra and
Willie Earl. They are the two who would be present and accounted for
just in case that I croak.
My daughter’s mother, Doris Grisham, I had a hundred chances to
marry her, but I didn’t, and right to this day she’s not married either.
Sandra, the last I heard, she makes her home in California and goes
from there back and forth to Chicago. That’s where her mom lives.
She is the only one of my kids that really seemed like she tried to make
something out of herself. I don’t know why, but I’ve just been some-
what like a semi-black sheep to my family. I never was around any of
them much, because I was into a whole lot of different stuff than they
were. Music is something that has been a very dedicated thing in my
life. It’s just that I never was around. I went away to school and wasn’t
around that much. For me, it’s been a life like a drifter, so to speak.
Being a musician, I also was a disc jockey, and I met Doris com-
ing out of the radio station one day after she had dropped off some
advertising for Spiegel, where she worked. A girl that worked there at
the station, they were good friends. This girl was also a DJ. She worked
in the office and had a tape commercial for Doris. After I got through
[ 42 ]
CH ICA G O A N D JA CK S ON FA MILIES
doing my show, I came out to the hallway out of the control room,
and she introduced me to Doris. I said, “Let me hear that tape com-
mercial you made.” She said, “Hmph! He don’t seem to be interested
in meeting nobody.” I said, “No, I just want to hear the commercial. If
you have time, I’ll talk with you.” We just sat and talked for a bit, and
we hit it off pretty good. She listened to a lot of music, but I was the
first guy that invited her out to where live music was being played. She
listened to a lot of records and used to go to a lot of big shows and the
opera at the McCormick Convention Center. But to be invited to a
jazz club or where they played blues by local people around Chicago,
she never did that. I was going to school and working at Chess
Records, selling records in their storefront and doing the music scene,
too. After about six months we was pretty close to being an item,
and she knew nearly every musician that I knew because every time
she would come to a club I would introduce her to them. She got to
know Willie Dixon pretty good. I wasn’t interested in getting married
myself, but I asked her one day, “Doris, would you ever get married?”
She just told me without even hesitating, “No, and if I don’t marry
you, I don’t guess I’ll ever get married. Whatever you do is your busi-
ness, but I believe that we’re going to be together until we decide that
we don’t get along and don’t want one another.”
I think a lot about that now.
There was a gal I was seeing besides Doris, and one Sunday we
were all getting ready to go to Gary, Indiana. I put my little girl,
Sandra, up in the front with Doris, who was driving, and then me and
the other woman got in the back seat. I didn’t care. We were going
along and Doris, I noticed, just kept moving her parasol around, one
of them big steel-handled ones. We were coming out of the Dan Ryan
Expressway, and in the middle of all the traffic, Doris suddenly pulled
over to the side of the road and said, “Get out of the car!” I said, “Oh,
why?” She said, “You heard me, get out of the car!” She started crying,
[ 43 ]
and I know there’s something wrong whenever you see that woman
cry. I was slow about getting out of the car, and she reached back with
that durned umbrella and she hit me—whop!—with the steel handle.
And even with the way that traffic was moving, the other woman
hopped out of the car and just went running. We were going to have
a showdown right there, when the woman run off and the little girl
hollered, “Run! Run! Run! Run, Miss Mabel, run!” You know how little
kids are. Doris said, “Now, get back in the car!” I said, “Well, are we
still going on to Gary?” She said, “Yeah, I just wanted to show you that
you wasn’t as smart as you thought you was.” So I got back up in the
front seat with her and the little girl, and we went on.
Her mom and I raised Sandra while I was living in Chicago. She
was real smart, real good at her books at Austin High School. I don’t
know to this day how it happened. Austin High was a long ways from
the neighborhood where we lived, but she went back and forth to
school out there every day. When she was fifteen, she could ride the El
and the bus transportation system just like any grown-up could. She
was basically a good kid.
The last time I actually saw Sandra was about fifteen years ago.
We were playing in Chicago, and she happened to come by the hotel
where I was. We couldn’t even have dinner or anything together,
because I was getting ready to go to the club, and she was getting ready
to take a flight back out to California. She was doing good, still single.
She said she wasn’t interested in getting married right then, no way.
My mother took care of Willie Earl ever since he was six weeks
old; he’s about forty-five now. Actually, he knows my mother was his
grandmother. His mother, Willie Mae, died when he was about ten
or eleven. We never were married, but my son always bore my name.
We met in Jackson, Mississippi, and that’s where Willie Earl was born.
I was with Elmore back then, running back and forth to Chicago.
We were playing a lot of clubs around Jackson and throughout
[ 44 ]
Mississippi, and we had our sideline business, the moonshine stuff.

Willie Earl was born at the university hospital in Jackson, which is the
University Medical Center now. About six weeks after he was born,
his mother and I had broke up right before I went out to Texas to do
the weekend with a friend of mine, a tenor sax player named Duke
Huddleston. I guess he still lives in Dallas; I haven’t heard from him in
quite a while. I used to come out with him and do gigs. We’d do stuff
for the government, a lot of political people. Duke is originally from
Jackson, but he’s been living out here in Dallas for a long time. He
was the first black man to have a TV show in Mississippi. I was work-
ing with his group part-time then, too, for a lot of government par-
ties and at the white clubs. That’s where the money was really being
made by a musician at that time. We played clubs in Jackson like the
Wagon Wheel. It was at 104 East Capitol Street, upstairs over a cloth-
ing store called R. C. Brown’s. We also played at another club on Pearl
Street called the Sable Room, not far from the old Jackson Municipal
Auditorium.
Because Willie Mae and I had broke up, I was renting from a lady
on 127 West Davis Street there in Jackson. While I was in Dallas, I
found out Willie Mae was going to give the boy away. Not put him up
for adoption, but just give him away. She had had a lot of kids, but she
didn’t like having any of them around like most people because they
cramped her style.
I had called my landlady, Miss Beale, and she said, “You know, if
you could get somebody to stand in for you, what you need to do is
get home as fast as you can because Willie Mae is fixing to give that
boy away.” I called my mother and asked her how soon could she get
to Jackson. After I told her what was going on, she said, “I could leave
Mobile now and be there in about four hours.” I said, “If I took a flight
out it would take me four hours.” Back then they didn’t have a jet ser-
vice going to Jackson. I said, “We going to have to work this out. By
[ 45 ]
the time you get to the house, I’ll be there at the same time.” So she
left Mobile going to Jackson. I told Duke, “I’m going to try to make it
back in time for the gig tonight.” He said, “Well, you don’t have to be
there until nine o’clock. But if it’s an emergency thing, we could work
around you. You’ll still get paid.”
So I came on home, and when I got there my mama was already
there. Willie Mae wanted to know why was I back so early. I told her
that I had found out what she was doing. I still had something like a
wardrobe trunk there at her place, so I packed the rest of my clothes
and stuff and she said, “What you doing?” I said, “I’m moving out of
here for good.” I put my stuff in that big trunk and left her standing
in the doorway crying her eyeballs out. Matter of fact, I took the next
evening flight back to Dallas, and I made it to the gig in time. So that
was the end of her and me. My mama took Willie Earl back to Mobile
with her. So, heck, I didn’t care. After I finished my gig with Duke, I
came back to Jackson. I already had me another place to live, so that
was about it.
Willie Mae was an all right person, but also she was kind of on the
rough side. Course, I wasn’t no angel then myself, I might say. But it
was one of those deals where we really weren’t meant to be together.
That’s what it all boiled down to. Willie Earl would ask me from time
to time, “Where’s Mother?” I said, “Well, she’s not around, son.” He
wanted to know what she looked like. So one day I finally told him,
“We’re going to get some pictures together and show you.” My mother
had some snapshots of Willie Mae and showed them to him, and he
told her, “No, that’s not my mama, you my mama.” So we just left it at
that.
I finally told him on his thirtieth birthday that she had got killed
in New York around 1970. It didn’t bother him much, because he really
didn’t know her. Another woman had got into it with her, and just
beat her doing what she thought she was going to do. Cut her throat,
[ 46 ]
yeah. Being in a place like New York during that time period, it was
a rough town. She liked to hang around in the saloons and run with
a rough crowd. The only job that she had was working in clubs that
she really liked. She was a good worker, knew a lot of work to do, and
she could always get a job. The nightclub scene, working in bars and
restaurants, that was her type of job. She was a professional shoplifter
as well. I never was in touch with her after we broke up. I happened to
hear about her passing through one of her daughters, Dora Lee. She
told me what had happened and I said, “Well, when you live a fast life,
that’s the way it usually comes out.” I looked at her like that was not
the kind of life for me, as a man of my ability. But some of the best
clothes I ever wore in my life, she sewed the material and made them
for me. She was a good seamstress. Even with the way that she lived
and stuff, she didn’t believe in going hungry and didn’t want nobody
around her to be hungry. I think well of her for that.
Naturally I got on with my life, being a musician and all. Just like
I said, it’s a way of life. Just one of those things. Years later, after he
became a man, Willie Earl got into trouble, but other than that, things
have been a pretty sweet life for me. I never have been into no real, real
heavy problem things myself, so to speak, so what happened to Willie
Earl really went down into deep stuff.
Willie Earl’s been to jail twice. The first time was when he killed
a guy. He had been working with some guys doing some kind of elec-
trical work. Willie Earl and one of the guys didn’t get along noway.
They was up at the office, and when the man paid them off, the guy
told Willie Earl that he owed him some money. Willie Earl cashed
his check and gave the guy his money. He had to rush to the house
because he and Mama and Dad were leaving to go up to Mississippi
that weekend. This guy followed him home, and they had some words
about some electrical wire cutters that belonged to my son and this
guy wanted them. He came up in the yard and called him out. When
[ 47 ]
Willie Earl went out, the guy picked up a shovel, and he broke the
handle of it across Willie Earl’s head. He was swinging at him again,
so Willie Earl took a knife and just plugged him right in the heart.
All of his buddies, they run off and left him. They called the cops,
and they put Willie Earl in jail. They had witnesses that saw that this
was a self-defense thing, so the cops were just going to hold him for
a little while in jail until after the funeral, then turn him out. I was
working at the Industries for the Blind there in Jackson, and Mama
called me and told me what had happened. I told her, “Whatever you
do, don’t worry about getting a lawyer.” She said, “Well, that’s my
baby . . . ,” you know, this, that, and the other. I said, “Well, I don’t care.
I’ve got to tell you this, whatever gonna happen to him gonna happen
to him whether you got any money or not. But it don’t make no sense
for you to spend every dime that you got and when you get broke
you find out that he was going to be set free anyway, and the lawyer’s
done got all your money.” So they told her at the jail, “We know this
is a self-defense thing, but we’re not going to turn him out right now
simply because we got to see what his family thinks about it.” Come to
find out, that boy’s family didn’t care nothing about him noway. But
you know law enforcement works a funny way. Naturally, when they
let him out, being in Mobile, Alabama, in the South, once you had
a record with the police department, whether it was in a good self-
defense or not, you still was a marked person.
A few years later, he had gotten married, and the cops set him up.
This woman told him that she was trying to get to her car that had
quit on her. He was working at the Oldsmobile dealership there in
Mobile, and he had bought him a pickup truck. He was hanging out at
this place, and this cop came up, and of all the people that had auto-
mobiles there, he was picked to be the fall guy. The cop told him to
take her to get her car and see if he could get it fixed for her. He said,
“Well, I know a little about mechanics,” and he went on around. She
[ 48 ]
dropped a bag of reefer and a bunch of pills on the floorboard of his

truck, and when he got out, she had this little scanner, and the other
cops pulled up on him and arrested him and took him to jail. He
spent two years up north of Mobile at one of those prison farms.
Then Mama really got wired up. She wanted to go and do every-
thing she could to get him out. I said, “Mama, you’ve got that boy out
of practically everything that he got into, but you know lawyers and
people like that will drain you for everything you got. He’s gotta hit
it so he’ll know what it is about life. Let this be a learning lesson for
him.” No, she didn’t want to do that. So me and my brothers and sis-
ter, we all told her if she messed around and got broke doing what she
could for that boy when it didn’t make any sense to do it, we would
never come again, we’d forget about the family. She started thinking
about that, and she didn’t do nothing. But she would carry him ciga-
rettes and money and stuff up there on visiting days. But she didn’t
cut that money loose to try to get him out. He was supposed to do two
years, but he got off a year early for good behavior. I said, “Well, that
was all the time he was gonna get in the first place. You would have
spent every dime that you had, and then when the lawyer find out that
you didn’t have no more money, he was gonna tell you, ‘Well, I did all
that I could do.’ He can’t get but two years, he was gonna do that time
anyway.” Willie Earl’s wife was messin’ around. She didn’t go to see
him any time when he was in jail. First time he ever said anything to
me that I thought made sense, he asked me what I would do in a case
like that. I said, “Look, you a man, and it’s right there in front of you
and you don’t even see it. I’d forget about her.” And so he did, and ever
since then, he’s been doing all right for himself.
I never did be involved with my other two kids that much because
of a whole lot of things that me and their mothers couldn’t see eye-
to-eye on. So that kind of put a damper on that. I wound up doing
a whole lot of different stuff. I just never have been the type person
[ 49 ]
to let things worry me. It just really means a lot to me, to see people
doing good. I never liked to hear about anything bad happening to
nobody. So, it’s just what you go through and deal with in life, I imagine.
I never have been the type of person who wanted to live above
my means. I’ve been a person that’s always tried to be a provider for
myself. I always wound up trying to deal with getting what I needed
to have or the best that I could get, without being wrong about it. It
would have to be done in a professional way before it would be right.
I was always interested in nothing but what was meant for me. What I
mean by being interested in, I don’t want anything that doesn’t right-
fully belong to me. I just wanted to become a good-living person,
and over the years, that has been a thing that I eventually wound up
achieving.
[ 50 ]
C HA P TE R 6
ELMORE JAMES
Sam’s long association with Elmore James was perhaps the most impor-
tant collaboration of his career. As a youngster of sixteen he met the
newly famous Elmore in Chicago a few months after the 1951 release
of Elmore’s biggest hit, “Dust My Broom.” It was recorded at Lillian
McMurry’s Trumpet Records in Jackson, a studio that in a few years
would figure significantly in the life of the young Sam Myers.
Sam was invited to join Elmore’s peripatetic group as one of a
revolving cast of studio and road drummers on the “Chittlin’ Circuit.”
This was the name given to the loose route that black R&B and blues
bands traveled in the 1950s and 1960s, mostly through the Deep South
and as far north as Pittsburgh and Detroit. It involved moving from gig
to gig in automobiles stuffed with instruments and luggage, and it was
a hardscrabble existence for musicians who relied on word of mouth to
persuade the next club or theater owner to book them for a night or two.
Many owners would even pit one band against another in competitions
to see who the crowd wanted to have back again.
Sam appeared on record with Elmore on such songs as “The Sky Is
Crying” (Fire Records, 1959), “Stormy Monday” and “Madison Blues”
(Chess Records, 1960), “Rollin’ and Tumblin’” (Fire, 1960) and a later
version of “Dust My Broom” (Enjoy Records, 1963). Their association
[ 51 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
lasted until 1963, when Elmore passed away from a heart attack at the
age of forty-five.
Starting off in 1952, Elmore was paying me thirty-five dollars a night,

playing drums. During the whole time we worked together, I didn’t
blow much harp, which is what a lot of people look for me to do now,
every time when they see me. I didn’t blow harmonica on but two of
his recordings. One was a big classic by him, “Look on Yonder Wall.”
That was on Fire and Fury, Bobby Robinson’s label out of New York.
We did that one in New Orleans. I played with him from ’52 until ’63,
the time when he died.
“Dust My Broom” was actually a Robert Johnson song, but
Elmore had made it into his own by the way he played it, all electri-
fied. It was a big record for him. Big Bill Hill and his brother had a
cleaners and a booking agency, Colt’s Booking Agency, on Madison
Street. Big Bill was a disc jockey and used to do his show from there at
the cleaners, through radio station WOPA. A lot of the bluesmen who
he booked would have shows on that station. From there he would be
playing their records from time to time, being also a booking agent
and a promoter and a DJ. They called that “breaking their records,”
playing their records when they just came out. That’s how a lot of
them got started.
After a couple more years I had begun to get fed up with Chicago.
To me, Chicago was a good opportunity; there was some nice clubs
there. But one thing I never did like, whenever you had your own
money to spend, you had to hide it away so nobody would know you
had any. If you spent any money, they would know you had some,
and they would try to get it away from you. It was like there might be
somebody watching, and there might not be, but that’s the way life had
begun to get there. People was always watching you. If you was some-
where by yourself, they’d jackpot you and take everything you had.
[ 52 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
That’s what the city was known for. It was a harsh life to live. So by 1956
I had got out of Chicago, and I was more or less permanently living in
Jackson when I wasn’t touring or recording with Elmore.
About 1957, at Vee-Jay Records, Elmore and I did “It Hurts Me
Too,” “You Know I’m Coming Home,” and “The Twelve-Year-Old
Boy.” The guy that played guitar with Bobby Bland for a long time, the
late Wayne Bennett, he was on those sessions. After we went on tour,
Big Joe Turner did a couple of songs called “Oke-She-Moke-She-Pop”
and “T.V. Mama.” It was a Big Joe record for Atlantic Records, but
me and Elmore were on the session. In 1959, I was on the session for
“The Sky Is Crying,” on Fire. Now, there’s one thing about Elmore
and his recording sessions. He could come out of the studio, and if a
guy wanted to record him right across the street or around the corner
from where he just came out of the studio, he’d go in and record. A
lot of guys would tell him, “Man, you got a big record out there, you’re
doing good, I’d like to do something with you. But you’ve already got
a contract, you’re lined up with this guy.” Elmore would say, “When
can you get the studio? Do you have a studio already? I can go in
whenever you get ready. I just have to get my band together and we
can go in and record.”
That’s the kind of guy he was. What royalties that he did have, it
was hard for him to get because he had a lot of records on so many
different labels.
After that, he did some more work over at Chess. “Madison Blues,”
“Can’t Hold Out,” and “Whose Muddy Shoes.” I was on those. There
were these guys in California, Joe Bihari and his brother Jules, who
had Modern Records out of Los Angeles. Elmore did “Sunnyland” for
them. I wasn’t on that, but I played it on his shows. What I would do
was to listen to the record, and I kept the beat in my head. That’s how
I would play them on the different shows. A lot of people have asked
me, was I on that session? I tell ’em no, but it would have been the
[ 53 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
same thing if I had said yes, because they were going to say I was there
anyway because I was in the band. There was a whole lot of guys in and
out of the band with him at the time, but he basically had Johnny Jones
on piano, J. T. Brown on tenor sax, and Grady “Fats” Jackson blowing
two saxes at the same time. I didn’t meet Fats until we did the Big
Joe Turner session.
Elmore did a lot of stuff for the Bihari brothers on RPM and a
few other labels. What people would do, they would try to capture his
music from different gigs, even though he never did do a live album.
They would always try to record him on his live shows, but he was
against that. On most all of the Bobby Robinson Fire and Fury ses-
sions from 1958 until 1963, I was on a lot of that stuff. We also did ses-
sions in Chicago, New Orleans, and then New York. That was a pretty
interesting thing. We recorded “The Sky Is Crying” in Chicago at
Chess Studios, but it was on Bobby’s Fire and Fury label. A lot of labels
did work there, like a lot of stuff they did on Delmark. They figured
that by them not having a studio of their own at the time, since
they were using Chess Recording Company musicians, why not just
go into their studio and do it there? Like Cosimo’s in New Orleans,
they would lease out to all labels. Johnny Vincent and Ace Records,
that’s how he did a lot of his stuff out of New Orleans. He would
cut it in Jackson at Trumpet and have it pressed down there in New
Orleans. He had a lot of Louisiana musicians that he recorded with at
Cosimo’s. That was the big studio at the time.
Anyway, back to Elmore. He did “The-Twelve-Year-Old Boy,”
which was a remake. I was in the studio at the time, but I wasn’t play-
ing drums on that one. But the first one, with Wayne Bennett, I was on
that. That’s kind of a strange song. The story behind that, there was a
kid who used to hang around Elmore’s house. The woman, she just
liked youngsters, like most women of today. But twelve years old,
that’s mighty small at that time period. He mentioned that the young
[ 54 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
boy used to hang around his house until late hours of the night, and
he wouldn’t have thought with a kid that young that she would have
in mind to treat him right. In the song he says, “If a young boy hangs
around, you should do what I should have did, send him over to your
neighbor’s, and hope your neighbor likes kids.” That was just a wild
thing. Elmore should have been doing his homework, yeah. He just
wasn’t thinking. He was probably looking for a place to make some
whiskey, or was heading out the door to a gig.
We had some good times together, in and out of the studio. Elmore
recorded “Dust My Broom” over a dozen times with different labels.
He really had an identifying thing with his slide guitar, though. A lot of
guys played slide, but the minute that he put that slide on his finger
and ran it across those strings, you would know it was him doing it.
We used to play a lot out at one of Percy Simpson’s clubs in Jackson,
Mr. P’s. It wasn’t a really big club, but it was nice-sized. They had
gambling facilities in the back, and guys would come there just to
gamble. While they would gamble, their lady friends would stay up
front and listen to the music. Boy, there was a lot of gamblers who
lost their women up in there! Lost their money and their women. But
it was a real nice place to play. That club was the highlight of Jackson
for a long time until they went out of business. They moved it and
changed it to Club 77. If you knew we were going to be playing there
on the weekend at ten o’clock, you had to get there about seven to get
a good seat. They kept a thriving business, so we would play there on
Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night whenever we was in
town. It was just a home-based gig for us.
Being as Elmore was originally from Mississippi, we would always
come back to Jackson when we wasn’t on the road. He’d get some
bookings from his recording company, but back then they didn’t have
too many agents that would go to bat for him. That’s where we would
remain, in Jackson, until we hit the road again. Sometimes Elmore
[ 55 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
would do recordings with the same people he traveled with, and

sometimes he would record with a lot of different people. But he
would always try to record with the same people he traveled with.
Elmore was a nice guy to be around. He wasn’t a flashy guy; he
didn’t have a lot of ego. People who’d be talking to him that did have
ego, the first thing he’d say to them was, “It’s good that the world is not
full of people like you. There’s enough room out here for everybody.”
Those would be his words. “Don’t think you’re so great that you can’t
respect your fellow man.” He was the kind of person, if he had any-
thing that you needed, he’d let you have it. What was so strange about
him, if he was broke, he wouldn’t take nothing from you. I never
could understand that about him.
He always would tell me, “Man, you know what, you should never
worry. If somebody who owes you is in business, you always got a shot
at ’em. But the person who you should worry about is the son of a gun
who owes you and won’t pay you and he’s going out of business. That’s
the one that’s really getting over on you, you know.” And that’s true.
Elmore and I ran a little sideline together back in Mississippi. We
had us a still on the banks of the Pearl River in Jackson, right across
from the Stillwell Reservoir, where the floodgates were in that north
corner. What was good about that spot was that you had swift run-
ning water, and anywhere you had a fast stream of clear running water,
that’s where you made your best whiskey. We were right at the spillway,
leading from the river into the reservoir. Right there at that spot, there
was a guy that was working for the company that was building it. He
was a good friend with us, and he gave us the layout with the map and
everything that they were going to do. So we never did get caught while
we had our still, but a lot of people around us did. There was a revenue
man named Sam Newman. He said if anybody was making whiskey
anywhere in the state of Mississippi, he would catch ’em. But he never
did catch us.
[ 56 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
We went in it, not blindfolded, and we got out of it at the right

time. What would happen, when we were off the road, we’d be in there
making whiskey. The way we would do it, we had a lady that would
help us. We called her “Big Mama.” She took our orders, plus she sold
the whiskey for us. Then we had a couple of guys in the police depart-
ment to keep stuff down, to let us know what was happening. We had
our airtight thing, you know? My deal was, before we would go to the
still, I’d make it my business to go down to the corner of Monument
and Farish Street there in Jackson to see what I could hear. There was
this black guy, Jake, that ran with the revenue guy, Sam Newman. Jake
would be down there on the corner talking about the stills they hit.
“Every one of you guys, you have it good, I didn’t get in until about
four o’clock this morning. We was off in Rankin County . . . ,” and all
that sort of stuff.
We had a smart thing going on while we was in the whiskey-
making business. There was a guy on the police force who was really
sick. I had always told him that I’d like to have his radio. He went into
the hospital, and he never did come out. That radio was one of the
things among his personal things that didn’t nobody get, because I
stole it. We could get a frequency on the highway patrol, the sheriff of
Hinds County, and even the city cops. And I had to be careful about
carrying it to a radio shop. I had some work I needed to have done on
the durn thing, but I knew a guy who had his own business on Mill
Street. He knew the kind of radio it was, but he fixed it for me. And I
used to just turn the thing on and listen to police calls, the wrecks on
the highway, and the stuff that the deputy sheriffs was doing even long
after that. When you had tubes that would be gone bad, you had to be
careful about that. You had to really be on the watch as to what you
were doing. But the way I had that thing fixed up after I got it, there
would’ve been no way, unless they were special looking for it, for them
to have been able to find out what it was. I even had it painted a
[ 57 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
different color, and where the name of the radio was, I had taped over
it. If anybody saw it and if I didn’t have it on, they’d just think it was a
ham radio. I kept that radio a long while.
One time, they almost caught us. I don’t know if someone tipped
them off to where the still was or if they were just wandering blind.
This guy Newman had all different kinds of ways to catch people sell-
ing whiskey. Now where we was, there wasn’t no cattle over there. But
he put a cowbell around his neck and he’d be walkin’ along. If anybody
heard it, they’d think it’d be a cow, and before they’d know anything,
he’d be up on ’em. So we had our setup going, everything cooking and
slowin’ and goin’ in a hidden deal by some brushwood. A person could
walk by it all day long, and if they didn’t see nobody out there, if it
wasn’t operating they wouldn’t even know it was there. So, in the mid-
dle of a conversation Elmore and me was having, I heard something.
We both had a rifle apiece; I had a .30-30 Winchester and I was as good
a shot as anybody else. What a lot of people don’t know right today
that knows how to use weapons, what would make it more accurate for
you to hit your target, you got to be able to hear as well as to see.
I said, “Man, somebody’s cow must’ve got out over here.” He said,
“There ain’t no cows within miles of this place.” And there wasn’t,
because from where we was, far from any settlement where people
lived, they had nothing but a big steel mill. So Elmore said, “Man, you
hearing things, there must be something back in Chicago on your
mind.” I said, “No, hell, it ain’t either, my mind’s right here in these
woods. Did you see that light flash?” He said, “You gotta be crazy now,
’cause there’s not even lightning.” I said, “That wasn’t what it looked
like. It looked like it was some kind of a flashlight.” He looked and he
saw it and he said, “Damn, I must be going crazy, too, ’cause I saw it
then. I hear a bell, it went ding-ding-ding-ding.” I said, “Yeah, do you
want to know something about it?” He said, “What’s that?” I said, “Did
you know a cowbell don’t ring up high? It ring down low.” He said,
[ 58 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
“That do sound strange.” I said, “Yeah.” He said, “Hot dog, I heard it

again.” I said, “Well, I heard it too. It’s either we gettin’ wild amongst
one another in these woods or somebody’s coming up on us.” He
said, “No, hell, you right, I see the light now.” And he was about as far
from us as about a hundred feet. Elmore said, “Man, put out the fire
and let’s get up this shit and get out of here!” I said, “Well, before we
do that, that’s Sam Newman, I know it is. We could kill that SOB and
won’t nobody know that we did it.” I reversed the rifle, and just then
Elmore said, “Hey, man, put out the goddam fire, put out the fire!” I
put the fire out and I said, “You see the light now, don’t you?” He said,
“Yeah. They right here on us!” I said, “Well, I’m going to pick him off!”
He said, “Man, put that rifle down and let’s go!” And so I put it back
in position and we took off running. And they got about as close from
me as ten feet but they couldn’t see us. We could see him ’cause he was
running blind in the dark, too. They had those flashlights, but that
brushwood kept ’em from seeing who we was, and we run until we
got up on the highway. I said, “Yes sir, here that son of a gun’s truck is,
parked right behind us.”
Where he messed up at, he did not do like a lot of people did back
then; he didn’t fix our truck to where we couldn’t leave. They probably
was waitin’ for us to run for it, they thought they were going to catch
us right at the deal. And we had fake tags, too. Back during that time
they had license plates where you could switch license plates and have
another state’s tag under your own. It could be the same truck. When
you’re doing stuff illegal, you gotta do every illegal aspect that you can.
We throwed our stuff in the back, put our rifles up in the rack over our
heads and jumped in. The truck just went, “Ummmmmm!” Now, that
durn truck had been cranking ever since before then. I said, “Oh, hell,
man, we better hurry up and do something because they coming up in
the highway.” And just at the time when Newman’s foot hit the pave-
ment, that durn motor turned over—rhoom!—so we took off. And
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ELMOR E JA MES
they shot at us, they might have killed us, but they had pistols. If they
had rifles like we had, they could have shot us up. But I wanted to
shoot that man, though. I really did.
The next morning I went down on the corner to select informa-
tion. Newman’s guy Jake said, “Man, you know what, last night we was
over on the Fannin Road in Rankin County. I don’t know who it was
but we almost caught ’em.” I said, “Yeah? What happened?” He said,
“Well, we parked behind ’em, it was a blue Ford. I think I know whose
it was, but I’m not saying.” I said, “Well, there’s a lot of blue Fords
around here.” He said, “Yeah, but there is only one particular truck
that’s like it.” Then he didn’t want to talk about it any more. I said to
myself, yeah, you black son of a bitch, you almost got killed and didn’t
even know it. So that’s the closest we ever come to being caught. We
used to go back and forth to the still in that durn truck.
We gave a guy six hundred dollars for it. He said, “Well, I need
some money, that’s the reason why I’m lettin’ y’all have it. But I used
this truck to run whiskey.” I said, “Woodrow, you a friend of mine, and
I don’t want you to say nothing about this, but what the hell do you
think we want the truck for?” He said, “That’s what I figured you want
it for. But if there’s anything ever happen, I want that truck back.”
I said, “Twelve hundred bucks and you can get it back whenever we go
out of business.”
There was this one guy who we got our copper coil pipes from at
the Jackson Iron & Metal Company on Rankin Street, in south Jackson.
We used to make whiskey for him because he let us have that pipe for
free, more or less. When we decided that we were getting out of the
whiskey business, he gave us a thousand dollars for the copper. That
was good money back then. And we had about two hundred-something
gallons of liquor that was left over. He said, “I’ll give you fifteen
dollars for every gallon you got.” We said, “Do you want us to cut that
copper up?” He said, “No, don’t cut it up.” Normally you’d think if
[ 60 ]
ELMOR E JA MES
you were working at an iron and metal company like him, he would
cut it up himself. He sent some men over, and the only thing they cut
was the pipes from them tanks so they could get it onto their truck.
And when they brought that durn truck in on the day that he paid us
off, I noticed he didn’t park the truck in the line on the crushing side
where they have the welding torches and the cutters. He had it parked
over on the other side of the yard.
After he paid us for the still, he gave us the fifteen dollars for every
gallon of the leftover whiskey that we had. He wanted to know, did
we want that in separate checks? We said, “You just add it up and
just make us one check.” He said, “Well, I’ll just go ahead and pay you
cash money for this,” and so he did. We asked him, “Hey, man, we’ve
got a flaming cutting torch, we could cut the thing up for you.” No, he
didn’t want to cut it up. We pointed the copper out to him where it was.
Course, he had been there and saw our operation so many times, he
was the one who gave us the copper coil pipe and the stuff to join ’em
off to get the still going. He used one of the company trucks to pick
the copper up. He had a truck that was big enough; he could just load
the whole thing on it without even cutting it up.
I happened to be thinking about it one night after it was over
with. We were rooming with a guy named Johnny Temple. We were
sitting watching TV, getting ready to go to work out at Percy Simpson’s
place. I said, “Elmore, don’t you think it would be strange for a person,
if they was in the iron business and was going to buy some iron, why
they wouldn’t just crush it with all the rest of the iron?” He said, “Well,
that might have been his personal thing.” I said, “Yeah, it was. I bet
you that guy might go into a business of his own.” He said, “Well, no
doubt he would. Hell, he paid for it, so what can you say?” So after
Elmore had passed, I found out that the guy had retired from the
Jackson Iron & Metal Company. Years later I saw him in Lynchburg,
Tennessee. He had gotten government approval to make whiskey for
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ELMOR E JA MES
the Tennessee distilleries, to make Jack Daniel’s. I had thought it was

kind of strange that he didn’t put the pipe from that still over with the
rest of the iron. He just piled that truck over by itself, away from that
area. And so that’s the way it went.
With Elmore, we toured and played on what they called the
Chittlin’ Circuit through the South. We went to Camden, Texas, a
couple of times. We never did go to Austin or Dallas, but we would
always go to Houston. That would be the main city that we would play,
and then we would go up into southwest Louisiana and come back.
There was the Satellite Club and the Golden Key Ballroom in Houston.
All those are gone now, all those clubs up and down the Fifth Ward in
Houston. I used to hang out at a lot of them. Don Robey was a big wheel
back then; he had the Duke Recording Company. Duke, Sure Shot,
Peacock, and Back Beat, those were his labels. We’d play at a lot of his
clubs there, in and around Houston.
Back when I was playing drums with Elmore, I never did loan
my drums to anybody. But if we were working on a gig or a session,
if a guy didn’t want to set his drums up and mine was set up and he
wanted to play them, he was welcome to do so. I’ve always been funny
about that. If I were there to lend a helping hand to any musician, I
would do that. I once had a set of Rogers Black Pearls. I was working
with Elmore, and Odie Payne used to tell me all the time, “Man, you
know you’ve got about the sharpest set around.” I had all these differ-
ent strobe lights and stuff on them and when I hit the stage, I’d just
flip a switch. I could switch them to a stroll, or if I wanted the lights to
be moving with the tempo of the music that was playing, I could do
that, too. A lot of guys thought it was a cool thing, and they respected
me. They wouldn’t play my drums like they was driving a nail through
a board with the sticks. And they sounded good, playing.
Odie said, “One day, I’m going to own them drums.” I said, “Well,
according to whoever’s going to be the longest liver.” Just like that, just
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ELMOR E JA MES
joking with him. But I got into some trouble, I fell down and needed a
hand out and took ’em to a pawnshop. That set of drums had cost me
fifteen hundred dollars. Odie took it upon himself to find out where
my drums went. He found out where I pawned the drums, and he
went down there and switched the durn pawn ticket and got ’em out
before the date I was supposed to get ’em out. I had told the guy I’d
come back and get ’em. I had pawned ’em for a thousand. But Odie
went and paid the guy like sixteen hundred. You know how a pawn-
broker can do stuff. But I messed around and didn’t pursue it after
he got the drums. He said, “You can play ’em anytime.” I said, “Okay,”
but I wasn’t thinking right and I went and tore the durn pawn ticket
up. What I should’ve done is went before a lawyer and sued the durn
pawnshop. The ticket was all I needed. But that’s how a lot of those
guys, especially around Chicago, stayed in business. Odie’s daughter
has still got that same set of drums now. We stayed good friends; I
didn’t think nothing of it. In this day and time, what a person would
do, they probably would really go over the edge. But we never stopped
speaking with one another or nothing like that.
We were getting ready to go overseas in 1963 when Elmore passed.
We had been touring all down through Mississippi, and then he went
back to Chicago to get the overseas tour ready. I got my passport and
stuff what I would need to go, and I was supposed to join him in
Chicago that Monday. He was rehearsing with some more musicians
in Chicago that was going on the tour with us, but I was going to be
the one to play drums. This made me think he kind of knew he
wouldn’t be living long, because before he left, he said something to
the club owner where we played in Jackson, Mississippi. It was a place
called the S&S, owned by Percy Simpson, out on Moonbeam Street.
Elmore told him, “Look, we’re going to see about getting this tour
together, but if things happen, if anything happens to me and you’re
still in business, I want Sam to have a job. Would you make me that
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ELMOR E JA MES
promise?” So after he passed, as long as Percy was in business, I played

at his club. You know, a weekend gig. But I had the option of doing my
own thing, just so I let him know ahead of time, but I always had a gig
whenever I came back to Jackson. I left and went overseas, this was in
’64, and when I came back, he was out of business. His nephew John
Simpson said, “We still got the club. Do you want to work?” I said,
“Well, I’m working out alone.” He said, “Sure, I understand what you
mean, but you got the gig if you want it.” Percy Simpson had died and
John had taken over the club, but it still held on, and I played around.
I’d run to Atlanta, maybe to Florida, but whenever I came back I still
had a gig at the club.
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C HA P TE R 7
JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI
Jackson, Mississippi, was originally a trading post on the west bank of

the Pearl River in a spot known as LeFleur’s Bluff. Named for President
Andrew Jackson, the little town was designated as the state capital in
1821 due to its abundant timber, attractive countryside, and proximity
to navigable waters. In 1839, the first law in the United States granting
property rights to married women was passed there. Burned three times
during the Civil War, Jackson had a population of only eight thousand at
the turn of the century. The advent of the modern railroads after World
War I fueled the rapid growth in the timber industry in that part of the
state, and the opening of a large (for the region) airport propelled Jackson
towards the modern age.
I was living permanently in Jackson by 1956, rooming with a friend

of mine, Johnny Temple. Johnny had lived in Chicago for about
twenty-three years, where he was a big figure in the music field as a
guitar player. He did a couple of recordings called “Big Boat Whistle”
and “New Vicksburg Blues” for the Decca record people. His career
extended on blues, and he played a lot of orchestration-type stuff, the
big band arrangements. He’d strum chords with that, but he actually
played a lot of lead guitar with his blues. He wasn’t a big influence on
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JA CK S ON , MIS S IS S IPPI
me; I just loved working with him, and I liked the sound of his voice
when he’d be singing. I never did any recordings with him, but I did
do some gigs with him while he and I were with King Mose and the
Royal Rockers.
When Johnny’s mother passed in 1952, he moved back to Jackson
from Chicago to take care of her house. When I was with King Mose
there in Jackson, I started rooming at Johnny’s house with my lady
friend. I never will forget the house where he lived because the address
was 905 Anne Banks Street, right off of Whitfield Mills Road. That’s
what it was known as then. I lived with him from 1957 until about
1960. It was a real nice, big house and he had a garden in the back that
he worked every day. He did his own cooking, and he was a master of
the kitchen. We would have lots of fun during the day. When I wasn’t
on the road traveling with King Mose, one thing I used to enjoy was
making ice cream. Johnny had an old ice cream maker, one of those
with a handle you would turn, and we made a lot of ice cream.
Elmore James had gotten out of the hospital in Chicago in 1957,
and he came down to live with Johnny. We were just like one big fam-
ily. Elmore used to fix gumbo and eggnog. It was a great time we all
spent together. Johnny Temple, we all called him Temple, he would be
getting those royalty checks from the Decca record people and a lot
of other people who he had recorded material with, so he had enough
money to get by on pretty well, with the three of us also living there.
It was just a joyous time.
Temple was a real nice man, and he would do what he could to
help someone. It was in 1958 when my son was born. Once he got sick
with diarrhea when I was out on the road. My son’s mother didn’t
have any transportation, and it was late at night. I think that the fee
to be admitted to the emergency room then was five dollars. Temple
got his car and took my son’s mother and him to the hospital. When
I got home, I went to pay him his money back. He said, “Oh, man,
[ 66 ]
you don’t owe me nothin’. That’s the way life is. You may be able to
do something for me, one day.” Just like that. I still insisted on paying
him. By him taking the boy to the hospital and what he had spent, I
took it to be a life saver for him.
Another time, I forget what year it was, but it was in the summer.
Elmore came in and he made a big pot of gumbo. After he got the
gumbo cooking and going on, he told Temple, “Now, don’t let it cook
too long, because it will get mushy.” Elmore went on out hunting; he
loved to hunt and fish. Temple got himself a big bowl of gumbo, and
then he fed the rest of it to his neighbors. They all thought he was the
one who had fixed it. A while later, Elmore came back, and I looked
for him to be really pissed off about it, but he didn’t say anything,
and neither did Johnny. It was just one of those things. After Temple
passed in 1968, somehow they tore the house down. Every time when
I would go back to Jackson, I would look for that particular house,
knowing it’s not there.
Not long after I got back to Jackson, when I wasn’t playing a gig
with Elmore, I started running the road, doing my own thing with my
own band that I put together. It was called the Shades of Rhythm, with
Jimmie King on vocals, Freddie Waite on drums, and Leon Dixon,
Willie Dixon’s nephew, on bass. We also had Jesse James Russell; we
called him “Lightnin’. ” He was on guitar, and Walter Berry was on
piano. I was singing and blowing harmonica. We was together from
1956 to about 1958. Then I went to do a recording thing with Bobby
Robinson, since Elmore had vouched for me to record something of
my own with Bobby. On a couple of the sessions Elmore played gui-
tar on some of it, so I began to make a name from that. I was inter-
viewed by a lot of magazines and began to get it together then. In 1959
and 1960, when we did the records with Bobby Robinson, there was
“Sad, Sad Lonesome Day,” “You Don’t Have to Go,” “Poor Little Angel
Child,” “Little Girl,” and I did one called “Sad and Lonesome.” “You
[ 67 ]
Don’t Have to Go” and “Sad, Sad Lonesome Day” had the late Dave
Campbell from Jackson on piano and “King Mose” Taylor on drums.
Matter of fact, it was Mose’s band who were the session guys. “Poor
Little Angel Child” and “Little Girl” was recorded with Elmore’s group,
but King Mose was playing drums on that. “Big Moose” Walker was
on piano, Sammy Lee Bulley was on bass and I was on vocal. It was
two different outfits there. And then after that, I’ve just drifted from
recording company to recording company.
King Mose died of leukemia a week after Elmore passed, around
the first of June 1963, and he was buried on the fourth. I stayed on
with Johnny for a while longer, and then I moved out to what is called
west Jackson. For the next three years or so, I traveled all over, coming
back to play in Jackson whenever I could. If I wanted to be there for
a weekend, I had a club where I could go over and play, and I also did
hotel gigs. I would always pick up a little session work and I worked
pretty steady, even with things being like they were. When I had a
hotel gig, I was working six nights a week. In 1965 I went overseas with
a blues tour run by a lady out of Chicago named Sylvia Embry. I was
out of the country for about eighteen months. The band was made
up of different guys from different groups, sort of an all-star deal. She
was married then to John Embry, a guitar player on that tour. We went
a whole lot of places, kind of like an international world tour. When
I came back, I started back playing around Jackson again with a few
different groups and on my own, doing my weekend deals. I’d run up
to Chicago, do a lot of different stuff. But a lot of the clubs closed, and
some of them moved out to the North Side.
The blues was going into a stage like a depression, and I was look-
ing for job security, so I wound up getting this job at the Industries
for the Blind in Jackson. If it worked out that I lived long enough to
retire, I would have worked under the Social Security law and got my
pension built up. So with that happening, it wound up being a pretty
[ 68 ]
good little thing there. I worked five days, sometimes seven days on
my job at the Industries for the Blind. But I was still doing music at
the same time, and that’s why I always say that music has played a big
part in my life.
I worked all over that place, since I had better vision then. I
worked in the shipping department and the mop department. It was a
manufacturing factory deal. They made brooms, mops, gun belts for
the military, barracks bags, inner springs, box springs, a whole lot of
different stuff. This plant was connected with the National Industries
for the Blind in New York. There were twenty-seven of those plants,
and the wage and pay scale and benefits at the plant in Jackson was
number one over all of them. But there was a few supervisors working
there that I didn’t see eye-to-eye with. It wasn’t that they didn’t have
the work to be done. It was just that there were people there that I
couldn’t get along with.
I worked there at the Industries for the Blind for fifteen and a
half of the thirty years in all that I lived in Jackson. But I would still
do a lot of weekends at different places. I would get a leave of absence
from my day job and I would go and do my engagements. By 1970 I
had been working about four years at the Industries for the Blind. I
was playing a lot at the Sunset Inn, on the same street where Percy
Simpson’s place was. I did some gigs there with one of my groups, the
Downbeats. We had a guy in it named Robert Miller. I left and told
him to take the band over. I left for a little bit, and then came back
and just let him handle the management of it because I had got fed up
with that stuff. That’s when I was working with him over at Foster’s
Nightclub. That was on Blair Street, right around the corner where I
lived at the time, on Monument.
I had another group called the Blue Light Blues Band, from about
1968 to about 1972. We played a lot at a club there in Jackson called
the Lamar. It was a theater that they had converted into a club. In that
[ 69 ]
band with me was James Russell, the same guy that played guitar with
me on a lot of that Fire and Fury stuff that I recorded under my name.
We had Walter Berry on piano and Leon Dixon on guitar and on bass.
I had Sherman Norwood on drums, and I was singing. We played
frat parties throughout the south, up at Ole Miss (the University of
Mississippi), Mississippi State, at the Holiday Inn in Columbus, then
down at Mississippi Southern in Hattiesburg, and just all around. Mel
Brown took a break from Bobby Bland, and he worked with me for a
while. That was the only band that I had under my management.
In about 1972 I started working with the Sound Corporation. That
was Willie Silars, he was the drummer, and Pete Garland on piano.
Jesse Robinson was on guitar. Charles Fairlee would come up from
Moss Point, near the Pascagoula area. He would come up and do a lot
of weekend stuff with us. He was on tenor sax. We did the Elks Club,
the Palm Garden, clubs like that in Jackson that was happening at
that time. There was another club I played at over in Lula, Mississippi,
called the Push N’ Pull Club. That was with a bunch of different guys
out of Greenville, places like that. The bass player was George Allen.
He was the studio bass player at Malaco for a long time. He would
do sessions with Johnny Barranco and all of them over at Malaco.
They was really kickin’ in high cotton back then. I never did noth-
ing for them, recording-wise. We’d play in other places like Talullah,
Louisiana, doing pickup gigs around the Delta area.
In 1979 I went back overseas with the Mississippi Delta Blues
Band. It was different guys, most of them were from California;
I was the only guy from Mississippi. Bob Deance, guitar; Richard
Milton, drums; Gary Asazawa, he was on rhythm guitar. Norman Hill
was another bass player. The second time around was Bob Deance,
Richard Milton, and Craig Horton also on guitar. Craig was a really
good guitarist and songwriter, but the rest of the band wasn’t about
nothing. We had another guy, his name was Haskell Sadler, out of
[ 70 ]
Oakland. We all called him “Cool Papa.” He was a durned good guitar
player, too. He died here recently; he was a good man. That brings it
up to about 1982, when I did the World’s Fair with Robert Lockwood,
Jr., in Knoxville, Tennessee, in summer of 1982. It was about that time
I met Anson when he was playing over at the George Street Grocery in
Jackson.
Overall, the Industries for the Blind was a decent place to work.
But you had a lot of people, just like the NAACP, they had a lot of
blacks really wanting to get positions and stuff. On jobs like that,
they usually call those people “cheese-eaters.” They were always going
to the man in the office, telling him about what one person wasn’t
doing. They had a meeting once and I mentioned that, and they all
got messed off with me. One of the guys just got highly pissed about
my ideas about things. Right about then I happened to be in New
Orleans in 1984 during the World’s Fair, doing some work for the
state of Mississippi as one of the representatives of the entertainment
department. Since I had to get a leave of absence from my job to go do
these gigs, I’d have someone from the head office to contact the people
at the plant and give me a letter of recommendation to go do these
things, and everything would work out fine. Whenever I got ready to
leave, I always was able to just go into what I wanted to do. The man-
ager told me, “You can just go when you want to,” but I told him it’s
always best to get permission before you do anything.
The last time I was there at the factory, I was making nine hun-
dred dollars a week from the World’s Fair, cash money, and I wasn’t
working as long or as hard. When I came back to work, there was a
big write-up in the paper about me with a picture of the work that I
did at the World’s Fair. Then I made a commercial on TV about the
Mississippi travel ticket, as to when you go to the World’s Fair you
should always travel through Mississippi. From the way it was set up,
regardless to where you were coming from, going to New Orleans
[ 71 ]
from the east, you would have to come through Mississippi. After
I made that TV thing, people got to seeing it. The little kids on the
street, I’d be walking, and they’d say, “Oh, we saw you on TV!” I’d say,
“Oh, really?” and they’d say, “Yeah, ‘It’s a Treat to Even Sleep in the
Mississippi Sun,’ ha ha ha!” and they’d be laughing like I did on the
commercial. And I’d say, “Oh, yeah!” That made me feel good, that
people who didn’t even know me would always come up doing that. I
had felt like I had done something for somebody.
During the World’s Fair, I had a week’s break and flew out to
Dallas to do a recording session with Anson Funderburgh. That
album, My Love Is Here to Stay, on the Black Top record label, was my
first one with Anson. So after I did that, I went back to New Orleans
and worked some more for the Mississippi Expo at the World’s Fair. I
got to thinking, since I had finished up that Sunday and it had been a
while since I rode a train, I took the train back home to Jackson and
went to work that Monday morning. People were looking at all this
stuff in the paper about me. And you know how people will be talking
on the job, “Well, this guy is traveling more than the people that work
in the offices here, he’s doing this, he’s doing that, he’s doing better
than the rest of us.” And they got to talking that around the area where
I worked at. I didn’t want to hear stuff like that, so what I did, and it
was the wrong thing to do, but I did it anyway. I quit. I didn’t even let
the people in the office know I was leaving.
I caught the Greyhound bus that night and went back to New
Orleans and then worked the whole season of the World’s Fair out
down there. My supervisor at that time said, “Man, if you’re gonna
leave, you should tell somebody something.” I said, “I’m not letting
anybody know a damn thing,” just like that. Course, I was making
more money doing what I was doing at the World’s Fair, but when
that ran out, that wasn’t what I was thinking about. The idea was
just making that money. So I got paid for this recording session with
[ 72 ]
Anson, and then I came back to Jackson and started doing some of the
same stuff I usually did around there, playing in different clubs and
doing more stuff musically.
Anson had heard of my work from a long time back, in 1982. They
were playing a club in Jackson called the George Street Grocery. It
was a grocery store at one time, and then it was converted into a club.
The upstairs part used to be a warehouse for the store. They built a
restaurant and bar downstairs and just a bar upstairs. That’s where the
music would be. When Anson and the boys came through to play, I
happened to be in town, and I went out and sat in with them, and we
hit it off from that. He asked me about joining the group in April 1986,
and that’s where I’ve been since.
I didn’t look for it to last as long as it has. But I look at it like, hey,
you know, at age seventy, if a man don’t know what he wants to do in
this time, there’s no need of him being here. I’d like for my opinion
or my ideas to be heard whether there’s anything did about them or
not. I always believe in doing things that makes me happy. My motto
that I live by, if you don’t do the things that makes you happy, you’re
not doing a thing except making yourself miserable and the people
around you miserable. That’s a sad gathering there, I think.
[ 73 ]
C HA P TE R 8
JACKSON RADIO
AND RECORDING
In the mid-1950s the music scene in Jackson, Mississippi, was thriving.

Black culture was centered on what is now known as the Farish Street
Historical District. It took its name from a former slave, Walter Farish,
who had settled at the corner of what became Farish and Davis streets.
Blues music had long been an important part of Jackson’s history, begin-
ning with furniture store owner H. C. Speir, who moved his business onto
Farish Street in 1925. Speir was interested in music and scouted for local
talent. In those days, furniture stores sold record players, and their own-
ers sometimes promoted local artists as an inducement for people to buy
the record players. Speir ran a sideline business making test recordings;
he made several of some now famous blues artists such as Ishmon Bracey,
Tommy Johnson, Charley Patton, and Skip James. He provided the means
and connections to have their songs recorded by Victor and Paramount
after they auditioned for him in his furniture store. He similarly assisted
with the early careers of Willie Brown, Son House, and Robert Johnson by
recommending them to labels like Vocalion. Speir closed down his music
business in 1944 during the musician union’s strike against the major
record companies.
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JA CK S ON R A D IO A N D R ECOR D IN G
Speir was soon followed by Willard and Lillian McMurry. The young
couple started the Trumpet record label in 1949, recording mostly gospel
music until Sonny Boy Williamson II (Rice Miller) joined the label. His
great popularity paved the way for other blues artists of the day to record
at Trumpet. Also on the label was Elmore James, who later would some-
times be backed by a young drummer named Sammy Myers (Sam did
not play on any of James’s Trumpet sides).
Another person of stature in the Jackson music world was Johnny
Vincent. He would also influence Sam’s career, though not in the way
that Sam would have preferred. Vincent did engineering work for
Trumpet and started his own label, Ace Records, in 1955. He leased
masters of recordings by Elmore James and Sonny Boy Williamson II
from Trumpet and rereleased them on the Ace label. Vincent went on to
discover and record a number of other popular blues, R&B, and coun-
try and western artists of the era. Sam recorded his most famous single,
“Sleeping in the Ground,” for Ace in December 1956.
Jackson also boasted the oldest black radio station in the state,
WOKJ. Sam resumed his radio career there in 1956.
In Jackson, Mississippi, I was a disc jockey at WOKJ radio. We would

play from record players, and a guy would set up a mic so you would
have a speaker that you could hear as you went along. That’s why it
was so easy for me to be as active as I was in radio. I never did do any
news or stuff like that; that was the hardest part, back during that
time, to read the news. There were a whole lot of guys who were top
disc jockeys that didn’t do the news. They always had somebody else
to do it, on the hour or five minutes before the hour. Nine times out
of ten, the person who did the news would be the person whose next
show was coming up, unless the next person’s show lasted past the
hour. Course, they could have a person from the newsroom to do it,
and sometimes the engineerman would do it. Most of the radio back
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JA CK S ON R A D IO A N D R ECOR D I NG
then was just like working on a job where you did your work manu-
ally. You were your own engineerman, you’d spin your records, and
you operated everything yourself. Now, the commercials that I did, a
lot of them were in Braille. I did most of my reading from Braille, but
I still had the same time period to do certain things like anybody else
would, like stopping to make an announcement between songs.
The guy that owned the station where I worked at, John
McLendon, he had about four radio stations. The one I worked at was
WOKJ in Jackson, Mississippi, the first black radio station in the state.
It started off in 1947 with five thousand watts of power, and then it went
to fifty thousand. It was on the dial at 1590 when they started, then in
1965 it moved to 1550 when they went to fifty thousand watts. Amongst
the DJs that they had at that time that I worked real close with was a
gentleman from Vicksburg, Mississippi, named Bruce Payne. He had
been working in Birmingham, Alabama, at one of their sister stations,
the main one, WENN. It’s called “WIN Radio.” All these stations were
connected with what was called the “Ebony Network.” They also had
KOKY in Little Rock, Arkansas, and KOKA in Shreveport, Louisiana.
Later on, they opened a station in Tampa, Florida, WYOU.
That all happened from 1954 to 1955, along back during the time
when I was still in Chicago. I came to work there at WOKJ in April ’56,
after I moved back to Jackson. I was hired on as a DJ, but by me being
a musician, they knew that I would have gigs that I’d be doing on the
Chittlin’ Circuit. So they gave me a time slot for my show where on
the weekends, if I wanted to be off, I could be off. My regular thing
was from Monday through Friday if I was in town. If they had a spe-
cial event going on, like if it was football season, they’d have someone
to do my show for me up until game time if I was away.
At this time, I was working with King Mose and the Royal Rockers.
I would come down to the station, and the guys would already be there.
I played some songs with them on the air and did the announcing for
[ 76 ]
the band like when and where we would be performing. We didn’t have
a sponsor at first. Then the show got so good that a supermarket spon-
sored us. It came to be a chain, but at first it was just one grocery store
called the New Deal Supermarket. It was on the corner of Church and
Farish streets in Jackson. They moved from that store years later into
a bigger one. Down south of Jackson at Crystal Springs, on the way to
New Orleans, they opened a new store. They built it from the ground
up, a great big one. They were our sponsors for a long time.
On Saturdays, the department of parks and recreation would put
on a show from noon to about five in the evening. The whole Jackson
scene of musicians, if they wanted to play on the radio, they came
out to the College Park Auditorium. It was located in College Park
off of Lynch Street, about three or four blocks west of Jackson State
University. They would follow my portion of the show, which was
on from nine-thirty until noon. They had another disc jockey, Jody
Martin, who was called “the Tall Man.” He would be at the audito-
rium getting ready to bring on the show from there. King Mose and
the Royal Rockers didn’t come on until whenever I got there from the
station, which was right down the street. When I’d sign off my show
at twelve o’clock on Saturdays I would say, “Now through the remote
facilities of WOKJ, we take you to the College Park Auditorium, where
your announcer for the extravaganza for the next three hours will be
your host, Jody Martin.” Then I’d switch the remote on, and he’d cut
in and start talking and then bring up the first band.
It was a great thing, being in radio. I enjoyed it just as much as I
did playing music, simply because I learned one thing: as far as work-
ing equipment, you could be the greatest person out there to do that.
You could tear down a transmitter and you could put it back together.
You could be that good, but until you learned one thing that has to do
with common courtesy and common knowledge, until you learn to
talk to who you’re performing to, radio or musically, you haven’t done
[ 77 ]
nothing. Music can be played from now on, but if you’re the host at
any function, a DJ or whatever, you haven’t done nothing until you’ve
learned how to talk to your fellow man. That rode with me in a lot
of ways. Even right today, when I’m on a stage with my band or with
anybody else’s band that I’m working with, I feel that it’s important to
involve whoever your audience is into what you’re doing. It makes them
feel better, which a lot of musicians today you don’t find doing that.
I did the DJ thing for about four or five years. About thirty-five or
maybe forty years later, when I went back to Jackson after being with
Anson for a long stretch, they gave me an honorary stone celebration
thing. It’s a stone plaque with my likeness on it that they’re going to
put in what’s called the “Walk of Fame” on Farish Street in Jackson. I
was overwhelmed; it really made me feel good about having that hap-
pen. I was proud to see a couple of people that had gone into retire-
ment, but they came out just for that day. These were people that I
hardly even said anything to when I was in radio. You know, you do
your show, “Hey, man, I’m outta here!” “All right, how ya doin’, we’ll
see you around some, uh-huh.” People who you never just sat with and
had a really long conversation. A lot of these people said even though
they were all full-time professional DJs, they learned a lot from Sam
Myers. It really made me feel good to know that. I don’t think they’ve
put the plaque in the street yet, but that is a project that’s in the mak-
ing. They even gave me a small copy of the plaque to hang on my wall.
One guy who was honored that day is not alive. His name was
Rice Miller, who a lot of people call Sonny Boy Williamson II. It was
almost like they reopened the doors of the Trumpet record company,
Miss Lillian McMurry’s company, where Sonny Boy had recorded a lot.
They honored him on that day and then Dorothy Moore and myself.
Miss Lillian’s daughter accepted the award for Sonny Boy. It really
surprised me. She is a young woman now and probably has a family of
her own. After the awards ceremony, I walked her out in front of the
[ 78 ]
theater and they were all taking pictures. She said, “You know, it seems
like a dream, but I remember you.” I said, “It don’t seem that it was that
long ago, I remember when you was a little girl, being up to the studio
with your mother.” She said she could kind of remember that. I said,
“I understand how over the years, things can stay with you.”
It wasn’t all that unusual for a white woman to be running a stu-
dio recording black musicians in Mississippi. There were a lot of guys
that had studios and they had women working for them, but she had
her own company and studio. Miss Lillian really did something for
the music in Mississippi during that time. Even though she was the
head person there, she had blacks and whites working for her. The
late Johnny Vincent was one of her engineermen. He had his own
record store called Johnny’s Records. Even after he got his own label,
Ace Records, he used to record a lot of his artists there at her studio.
Musicians like Willie Love, Sonny Boy Williamson II, and a group
called the Seven Sons, which was a gospel group, and a guy from over
in Meridian, Sherman “Blues” Johnson. Most everybody in Mississippi
recorded there. Little Milton didn’t record under his name there, but
he was on a lot of the recording sessions that she did.
In December of 1956, at 309 North Farish Street at the Trumpet
recording company studio in Jackson, Mississippi, I did “Sleeping in
the Ground” and “My Love Is Here to Stay.” Johnny Vincent was the
engineerman of that session, and it went on his label, Ace Records.
The number of that particular song was 536. I recorded it, and he paid
me and the rest of the band twenty-five dollars apiece. That was the
only money I ever got out of that song. No royalties, just the session
fee. This is how the song went:
I would rather see you

Sleeping in the ground,
I would rather see you
[ 79 ]
Sleeping in the ground

Than to stay around here
If you’re gonna put me down.
Well, I give you all my money,

Everything I own.
Everything I own.
Well, some day I’m gonna get lucky,
And down the road you know I’m goin’.
Well, I would rather see you

Sleeping in the ground,
Well, I would rather see you
Sleeping in the ground
Than to stay around here
If you’re gonna put me down.
You know I give you all my money,

Yeah little girl, everything I own.
Everything I own.
Well, today I’m gonna get lucky,
And down the road you know I’m goin’.
[1956, words and music by Sam Myers]
The people who played on it was King Mose Taylor on drums,

Walter Berry was on piano. He later became a doctor and retired from
the University Medical Center in Jackson. Walter Crowley, a brick
mason, he was on bass. The guitar player, who is no longer with us,
[ 80 ]
was Tommy Lee Thompson. All he did was music. And myself on
vocals and harmonica, that was the group. It was a big record because
like most records back then, it was released quickly and radio stations
were playing it by the month of February 1957. We had gone over to
the studio on a Sunday night, but we didn’t get a chance to record
anything, because he had several other musicians there who had been
recording for him long before I was. On Wednesday, we recorded it.
I never did receive any royalties, not even from Johnny Vincent. He’d
say, “Hey, man, you got a pretty big record out there. I’m proud of my
label for doing it. Do you need anything?” And he would give me five,
maybe ten bucks. I wouldn’t consider that as being royalties because
he never gave me a statement. He was like a lot of people in the record-
ing industry that had artists back then. It was like it was just this little
bitty record, and he never thought about it until he saw you. Instead
of sitting down like a gentleman and making a royalty statement and a
check special to me, he just said, “Here, put this cash in your pocket.”
He had told me the royalty was going to be 2 percent of the record
sales. But the twenty-five-dollar session fee and some pocket change
now and then was all he ever paid me. He just never did anything
with the royalties. Dave Campbell was a classical and jazz piano player
who used to direct Miss McMurry’s music department on her label.
Dave took the song and wrote it out into sheet music for the session.
But what he did, unbeknownst to me, was to put the song in as being
published by him. In later years, he sold it to some guy in England. He
didn’t put anybody else’s name on it, he just said he owned it, and that
was good enough as far as anybody else was concerned.
I wish a lot of Texas guys could have got a chance to really get into
the real thing, the way they played the blues back in Chicago during
that time. They probably wouldn’t be so hung up on what they think
they know now. But music has changed a whole lot since then, a whole
lot. I was talking with Mel Brown when I was up in Canada recording
[ 81 ]
my CD, remembering back when Miss Lillian McMurry was recording

in her studio at Trumpet Records. They wasn’t paying the guys much
money, but the more songs you had, the more that she would pay you.
But she tried to cut you low on that, too. She’d get a stool and be sit-
ting with a short dress pulled up. When come time to pay the guys for
the session, it wasn’t but ten dollars. She would do that stuff just to
keep from paying the guy, distracting him that way. She was a good-
looking young woman then, in her thirties, maybe close to forty. But
overall, something good came out of it.
Trumpet was the recording company back during those days. She
did gospel, did a whole lot of stuff. B.B. used to record there, but he
didn’t do no stuff under his name. If he was going to be playing a gig
in Jackson, he’d come down to the studios and lay down a few tracks.
He knew most of the guys, and he would take his guitar and strum
through some stuff with them. Rice Miller, he was in some of those
sessions. He did a song called “From the Bottom.” He and B.B. were
big buddies, and B.B. played guitar on that. You’d be surprised at a lot
of those guys, how they survived a lot of that stuff and who are still
around. But the majority of them are gone.
It was a very interesting thing, and I would play a lot of their music
on my radio show. I had a thing that I was gonna do on one of my
shows, and we was just about to get it hooked up, but then I just up and
left the station. They didn’t fire me; I just up and left. But I came up
with a good excuse, which they bought, and it was good for me. What
it was, I decided that I’d like to hit the road again and do nothing but
music. That’s the way I left it. But there were a lot of guys in and out of
that station, WOKJ, when I was there. It was the only station in Jackson
that played a lot of R&B and gospel. I had a whole lot of friends that
worked there. They would ship a lot of the DJs around to different
places, but they never really got around to doing me that way because I
had quit. I just decided it was time for me to do something different.
[ 82 ]
C HA P TE R 9
THE BLUES
What is the meaning of the blues? How does it feel to have the blues?
What’s it like to listen to the blues? There are as many answers to ques-
tions like these as there are blues fans, scholars, and musicians. Everyone
hears and understands the blues in a different way. A student of the blues
could spend the rest of his or her life reading, researching, writing, and
talking about the blues and barely scratch the surface of this deep subject.
So, what does one do to try to gain an understanding of the blues? There
is really no firm answer, except for what one finds within one’s own soul
that resonates to the blues. Or, one can seek out a blues artist, a longtime
practitioner of the art and member of a dwindling generation that will
all too soon be lost to history as age and time finally take their toll. Here,
Sam expresses his feelings on what the blues means to him, discusses
some notable blues musicians and blues styles, and describes his unique
song-writing process.
Now I’ll talk about the blues and what the blues means to me. I looked
at the blues for a long time before even studying its contents. To me,
people often look at blues as being depressing and about hardships.
Well, that’s true. But there are three known directions blues can go
in. One, there are some happy blues, and then there are blues where
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T H E B LU ES
you have problems, to where you can’t see your economic situation.
And then it can be just a story sung musically about the facts of life.
It don’t always have to be about a woman. It could be something that
happened to you, or it could be something that you’ve seen happen
to someone else. I’ve heard it said, and I go along with it, that it takes
a worried man to sing a worried song, but that’s not always the blues.
It’s the way you feel about it, the way you express it.
The blues is really expressing in a musical story form the way
you feel about something. And in order for it to go over big for you,
you have to have a feeling for what you’re doing. That’s what it really
means to me. And it’s not all of the time that the words of a song
should rhyme. It would be better if it did rhyme, but it’s just like tell-
ing a story. It’s a very simple thing, but people look at it as being hard.
But it really is a simple thing, that’s why you have a lot of music that
is being played right today that got its start from the blues. And it’s
just telling a true story about the facts of life, the hardships. Or maybe
in some ways, it’s a story about that you are happy. Usually, a blues
song is about a woman. If it’s a blues song, in order to make it a happy
blues song, it’s in the way that you do your phrasing: “Yes, this chick is
coming back, I’m a happy man, I feel like a millionaire even if I don’t
have a dime.” By the same token, you might feel good, but even mil-
lionaires have the blues. Where their blues starts, people might say,
“Look at that guy standing over there by that Lexus.” “Who you mean,
the guy by the Chevrolet pickup?” “No, the one that’s right next to the
Mercedes-Benz. That guy’s got plenty money.” So many ways he’s got
money, but he also got blues. Where his blues begins versus a person
that don’t have money, his blues begins when he had to get lawyers
that he pays a lot of money for him to keep what he’s got. Where, vice
versa, a person that don’t have much, he might be having to scuffle up
what he needs to eat or where he needs to live. That’s where would I
say even rich people have the blues, because they try to scheme and
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T H E B LU ES
connive to keep what they have. You’ve never heard of a person that
was being sued unless there was a lot of money involved. That’s where
your blues starts. Basically, it’s when you don’t have something you
need, or it’s something that could be handled in a way that you could
still have it and still be blue.
I hear people look at Monday like it’s supposed to be a blue day,
“Blue Monday.” Well, you’re not always supposed to look at Monday
as being a hangover from Sunday night’s party. You could be blue in
a lot of ways come Monday. Maybe you’re not able to work things
out on Monday that you need to work out. Well, you see, you’re blue
about it. And that same thing could not only be on Monday, it could
be Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. So that’s my
pronunciation of the blues and what it’s all about.
A really great blues song has certain things about it. Not only
could it be something that happened to you, it could be something
that you see happening in everyday life. It could be the problems of
a neighbor, or somebody who you see who had something happen
to them in the streets. It could revolve with people all around you.
Whether it’s a sad blues or if it just rambles on slow, it could still be
a good feeling. It’s not always something bad that you see happen, or
something that has happened to you, like a relationship with a lady.
Anything can turn to blues. It just goes with the flow of the facts
of life.
Fast and happy songs, like in swing and jump blues, also fit into
the blues world. You could be doing some swing blues: “For you my
love, I’ll do most anything.” You know, you’re happy and you feel free
in doing this. Or you have had hardships for a number of days, weeks,
months, or maybe a year, and all of a sudden you’re happy because
you got a telephone call or maybe a letter that the one that you dearly
love is coming home. So, it is in a blues perspective, but you are happy
about it.
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T H E B LU ES
A good example of a great blues musician who could bring out

that kind of emotion would be one of the world’s greatest as he is
known today. He’s a guitarist and he’s recognized. The person that I’m
speaking about is known to be one of the world’s greatest at this sort
of thing. That would be B.B. King, because to my knowledge he can
do all styles of blues. The next person who also can do that is Bobby
Bland. You’ve got what is called hard-core blues. It can go from that to
blues tradition. The way it is today, both of those guys are the greatest
to me as being vocalists, even though B.B. plays his instrument. They
can take today’s music to any level. I would say that those two would
be the ones who are alive today, who really have been able to polish
that off.
You see, years ago, people looked at blues as being about hard
times when it’s really not that way. Blues can come to you in different
forms, like when most women sing about the losing of their old man
and men speak about the loss of their lady. But that’s just one way of
the blues. It’s a simple thing; you can be happy and have the blues.
A lot of people don’t believe that. But basically, what the blues can
really turn you into a hard-boiled case is, when you broke, you have
got nothing but blues. When you’re broke, you’re down and out, you
can’t see nowhere can you get ahead, well, you’re blue. I wish people
would stop saying the blues is a good man gone bad. It’s not that, it’s
more like a good man feeling bad. Naturally, it’s part of it when you’re
broke and can see no way out. Naturally you feel bad about it; you
got blues. But there’s a blues of happiness as well. Also, people have
gotten to where they’ve run out of old standard names of music. You
even got stuff now, like rap, it has began to catch on real good. For just
throwing something together, I would say it’s doing pretty good. Now
they’ve got a new thing called hip-hop, and no one can explain to me
what is meant by that, “hip-hop.” What’re you doing, you just hipping
and hopping?
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T H E B LU ES
But the old standards are blues, gospel, and jazz. And now, they
have even turned gospel music around so it is called contemporary gos-
pel. There is a Top 40 thing in gospel like there is in the Top 40 charts in
Billboard magazine. You’ve even got Christian rock and Christian blues.
That’s where you run out of names. Christian is Christian and blues is
blues. It’s more related to gospel than to anything else because you’re
singing about Christianity. I know a lot of the quartets have big orches-
tras backing them up doing gospel, but it sounds like they’re doing a
disco song. The only way you can really understand what’s happening is
when they sing, “Oh, Lord!” or “My Savior!” or something like that. But
otherwise, you wouldn’t know it from anything else.
I believe there is such a thing as Mississippi Delta blues, because
it bends back towards slavery more than anything else. But whether
it’s Texas blues or Chicago blues, they’re just names that people are
throwing out there. Maybe that’s just a way to identify the musicians
who are from that area. If they are playing Texas blues, they’re maybe
a Texas person. But, what do you think about a man playing “Scratch
My Back”? That was a tune that was written by Slim Harpo. Would
you call that Texas blues? I don’t think you’d even have to hear it to
answer that. Because you would know that Slim Harpo was the first
one that did it, and he was originally from Louisiana.
From the beginning, you’ve got people who are copying stuff that
T-Bone Walker and B.B. King did. Now here’s what happened to that:
all the bluesmen, even B.B., was somewhat influenced by T-Bone.
That’s what people start out working on, influences, but it don’t have
to be just that type of blues that they are playing, like Texas blues. Just
because a person is from Texas, that don’t mean that he plays Texas
blues. If Freddie King was still alive and playing, no doubt if his style
didn’t change he would be playing Mississippi Delta blues. But he was
originally a guy from Texas. So the question still remains unanswered
to me.
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T H E B LU ES
A lot of people hear a song and they say, “Oh, that’s Texas blues.”
What is Texas blues? The only definement that I could find of Texas
blues is just Texas blues musicians playing blues, captivating it as
being their own. The people who originally did the song that they are
covering are miles away from here. Some of them have never even
played in Texas. T-Bone, when he went to California to play in Les
Hite’s band, he definitely didn’t play Texas blues into that. But when
he started doing his own thing, a lot of people called him Texas blues
because they knew he was from Texas. What it was, T-Bone played
a whole lot of different stuff as well as his own and he was, I would
consider being, a blues musician from Texas. But he definitely wasn’t
Texas blues like Mance Lipscomb and Lightnin’ Hopkins. Lightnin’
was from Texas, but he wrote a lot of songs for Delta blues musicians
like Muddy Waters and all those cats. Lightnin’ wasn’t what you’d con-
sider Texas blues either. It’s way over my head what Texas blues really
is. I think a lot of musicians say, “It’s just a name.” I go along with
what a lot of what people say, but when it comes to having a theory,
I have my own beliefs and doubts about it. There are a lot of people
who play blues and have gotten away with it over the years, playing the
blues and they don’t even really know what it is. They don’t even know
the meaning of it when it’s right there in front of them.
You hear a lot of people talk about “West Coast blues,” but you
never hear anybody say “East Coast blues.” You have Piedmont blues,
which is close to the East Coast, but the Piedmont style of playing
blues is acoustic. One of the greatest things from that area, there are
more people playing blues on the East Coast than on the West Coast,
like in Boston but not so much of it around New York. Guys do a lot
of old blues standards, mostly Piedmont style. As a matter of fact, they
do more blues in that part of the country than they do in the whole
state of California, but yet you got “West Coast blues.” But if it’s acous-
tic, somehow it all comes under the heading of Piedmont. If that’s the
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T H E B LU ES
case, there was Big Bill Broonzy, a gentleman from Arkansas who lived
in Chicago for a number of years. That’s where he died. He played a
lot of acoustic stuff that they called country blues. So why haven’t you
ever heard of a large quantity of musicians that came from the part of
the country that Big Bill Broonzy came from? He was from Arkansas,
and as many blues musicians as you have in Arkansas, you never hear
about them being from there, ’lessen they get on with a big major
label somewhere else.
Like this guy, Michael Burks, who signed with Alligator, he’s
from Fayetteville, Arkansas. He has a whole lot of guys mixed up in
his strings on guitar. Part of it is B.B., and then Albert King. He has
established himself real well, but the reason why a lot of people don’t
recognize him as a heavy-duty bluesman is because of these different
styles he’s got mixed into one. I don’t know how they do it, but a lot of
people are being paraded for what name they have and not by what
they can do. Elvis Presley was like that, everybody looked at him like
he was the king. But what they failed to realize at that time, even
though he was a showman in the stuff that he liked to do, it was a
black man, Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, who inspired Elvis how to play
guitar. Elvis even recorded several of Arthur’s tunes. But the gentle-
man who was playing the guitar on all that solo work, that fancy
fingerpicking stuff, it wasn’t Elvis doing that. That was a guy out of
Memphis, Scotty Moore. Scotty didn’t get a lot of the credit that was
due him because people kept hollering, “Elvis is the king! That guy
could sure play that guitar!”
John Hammond, Jr., has acclaimed a lot of stuff, and he’s good
with it. He can do acoustic, and then a band can come onstage and
he could play with them. A lot of guys who play acoustic cannot work
with a band, because they’re used to being solo. That goes with the
feeling of what they know to do. Robert Lockwood, Jr., can go both
ways. He can do more with a twelve-string guitar than a lot of guys
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T H E B LU ES
can with six, ’cause he carries his rhythm, his chords, and his lead
notes all the same. He could take his guitar and do whatever he wants.
A lot of guys play guitar and got big names, but they can only do so
much. I feel like if a man presents himself as a guitar player, he should
be able to do more than just one thing. He’s gotta have enough weight
about himself. If he knows his instrument, he should be able to get out
there, and if something goes wrong with the band, he can do some-
thing to keep them afloat. If a guy takes his guitar and can’t play with
nobody but just the band, he’s just somebody living off a pole that
somebody else has notched.
Chords are a very important thing in music with any instrument
that you play, unless it’s a saxophone. A saxophone goes to harmony,
but you can balance a chord out by a group of horns playing harmony.
Not the same note, that would be what is called “in unison.” But to
harmonize, you pick a part that will blend in with a guy that’s playing
the lead. If you could strum up some harmony at the same time when
the guitarist is playing chords, it really helps it out a whole lot.
B.B. knows a lot of chords, but he’ll tell you himself, he can’t
play and strum chords all at the same time. A lot of times when
B.B. is playing, he may have the guitar on the intro, the solo, and on
the going out. In between, just playing regular chords, he don’t do
it. He usually stands there and sings and claps. But that’s the way his
style is rounded. He can play one of the best arrangements of “Going
Home” on a guitar that I’ve ever heard. One night, he walked into Don
Robey’s studio there in Houston. They happened to be playing there
that night, just a bunch of musicians getting together and jamming.
Not like the amateur jams you see in Dallas, these were professional
guys going to the test. A guy picks a tune and the band goes off and
plays, and each guy takes a solo to the fullest of what he knows. So
B.B. walks in, sits down, and listens a minute. Then he reaches over
and grabs a guitar, and everybody looks at him, because he’s supposed
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to know what he’s doing. But he decided he would give them a little
more something to worry about. The horns were doing their part,
then he went off to do his solo, and he did about two things in one.
When he got ready to modulate to the song he was gonna do, he just
did a lot of stuff like fast notes and running chords. He even did “Tiger
Rag.” Everybody said, “Now this cat is playing this stuff like he’d been
doing it all his life.” But that wasn’t the point. What he knows, and the
way his style was, he had to study that. He had studied music in that
form. That’s why it was so easy for him to do it.
Count Basie was the first guy to acclaim B.B. as the world’s great-
est. B.B. made some appearances with Count Basie for a while. People
would look at him like, “That’s just a guy on stage playing jazz.” Now
B.B. could play jazz as well as he could the blues. He might be on stage
just like one of the guys in the band, with a uniform on. Then when
he came out again he’d be dressed different and be like wildfire, which
is great. I could understand what he was reaching. If an idea comes
to you, you should just go ahead and do it right then, because if you
mess around, you’ll forget it. Just do it while it’s there in front of you.
That’s why B.B. does what he does so well. Freddie King was a good
Texas guitar player, but like I always have said, to hear some good B.B.
King music played, I like to hear him do it.
The late Little Milton used to be the same way. For years, before
he found out that he could have a thriving style of his own, everything
that he played was just like what B.B. King did. Until he found out he
could be Little Milton, that’s the only way he did it. But just like a lot
of guys tell you, “Yeah, man, I gotta start somewhere.” But, hell, you
don’t have to keep that up the rest of your life!
Not only Milton, there were a lot of guys who played guitar and
were some pretty decent singers. B.B. was kind of a milestone for a
lot of them for a long time, including Buddy Guy. I thought it was a
great thing when Milton decided to do his own styling thing. Since he
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did that, he wound up getting more work, and his popularity began to
grow strong; there are just a lot of good things to be said about that.
I’ve known both guys for quite a while and I thought it was a great
thing that Milton went on to achieve his own style of performing. It
really helped him a lot.
Ever since day one, there have been a lot of people, even if they
have a style directly of their own, they usually had a tendency to copy
off the other person before they went into their own thing. But a lot
of them who started out that way never changed. They grew to be
old men and their styles stayed the same. There’s a gentleman called
“Guitar Gable.” There’s so many people who sounded like him, until
you never knew who was who, because they not only sounded like
him, they used the same name. I know of about three or four Guitar
Gables. The original was a blues guitarist who also played a lot of
other stuff. But there were so many people playing the type of material
that he played, until you didn’t know one from the other. Like “Guitar
Junior” that played with Muddy Waters for a long time, that was his
key signature. His real name was Luther Johnson. There were a lot of
guys who called themselves Guitar Junior. Clarence Garlow was some-
times called Guitar Junior. He was out of Louisiana. Lonnie Brooks
was from Louisiana, too. He was Guitar Junior at one time when he
was a young man. But he wound up saying, “Hey, this not going to
work.” He came out, left the name Guitar Junior alone and went into
who he really is, Lonnie Brooks.
So you had a lot of guys who would take the same name. They
were copying one another and then they would use that name and
would say, “You’ve heard this guy. Now I’m going to show you where I
can do better.” Kind of step the style up, while still wearing the name.
It’s just one of those things. Something else that was interesting about
that, there was a harmonica player named Sonny Boy Williamson. The
original Sonny Boy was John Lee Williamson. He got killed in Chicago
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in a knife stabbing. Sonny Boy Number Two, as they would call him,
his name was Rice Miller. He hung around mostly the Mississippi
Delta, then over at Helena, Arkansas. And even though as flat and
as country as he would talk at times, he wrote some good songs. He
was a DJ and he just traveled around. How he got to be worldwidely
known, he would always travel from town to town, state to state, any-
where, just him and his harmonica. Plus he did a lot of recordings,
did a lot of stuff on radio. He was successful at that because the
real Sonny Boy, John Lee Williamson, was dead; he had done all his
recording back in the forties. Rice Miller had taken the name “Sonny
Boy Williamson” even before the original Sonny Boy had died. But
after John Lee died, it was wide open for Rice Miller to start calling
himself “the original Sonny Boy Williamson.”
Rice Miller would come to Chicago to record. He would use the
same musicians that Little Walter used. But he didn’t stay nowhere
long. He didn’t care for Chicago, and he had a lot of enemies there. A
lot of people didn’t like the idea of him taking the name Sonny Boy,
when it was originally John Lee Williamson. How he did it, he got his
ID and everything to read Sonny Boy Williamson. People who knew
him said, “Man, you are not the original Sonny Boy.” He’d pull them
aside and tell them, “Don’t say nothing. I’ve got a gig to play, then I’m
on to the next town.” A lot of people around Chicago didn’t like that
and didn’t care for him being around, although he blowed a harp like
a demon. He could just pick up and start blowing any style. He never
did use much amplified stuff, mostly studio mics. People were pissed
off at him, but nobody wanted to hurt him because he blowed stuff
that John Lee Williamson didn’t blow. Not only did he take the name,
he took the music and did something more with it.
He didn’t stay long in Chicago, not because he was afraid of
anybody, but so he could keep his reputation. Elmore James, Robert
Junior, they liked Sonny Boy real good because if he ever got into a
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contest, he could protect himself with what he know as a musician.

Whenever Sonny Boy went to Chicago where the musicians were, that
son of a gun, if he walked into a club and if there was any harmonica
players there, they just sat back in a corner and watched. And a lot of
people don’t know that James Cotton used to stay with Sonny Boy
when they was in Helena. From a little boy on, Sonny Boy taught
James how to blow harmonica. That’s why James is as good as he is,
right today. I met Rice Miller a few times, had a few laughs with him,
but I never did play with him. During that time, I wasn’t really all the
way interested in harp myself; I was still carrying the trumpet as my
main instrument.
Rice Miller also recorded in Jackson, Mississippi, on the Trumpet
Records label for Miss Lillian McMurry, in the same studio where I
first recorded “My Love Is Here to Stay” and “Sleeping in the Ground.”
But he was there before I was. The first record that he did on Trumpet
in about 1951 was “Eyesight to the Blind,” just him, a drummer, and
a piano player. From that he did “West Memphis Blues” and “Cool,
Cool Blues.” He had a piano player, Willie Love, with him at that time
that played on his records. He had a group called Willie Love and the
Three Aces. Not the Aces out of Chicago, but the Three Aces. Sonny
Boy was a part of that, plus he played a lot with the King Biscuit Boys.
They consisted of Dudlow Taylor, James Curtis, Robert Lockwood, Jr.,
and himself. What they would do, they had a broadcast out of Helena,
Arkansas, on KFFA, which today they honor every year. The King
Biscuit Flour Company has a festival called the King Biscuit Blues
Festival in honor of Sonny Boy Williamson because he spent a lot of
time in Helena being broadcast on KFFA. Sonny Payne, we all called
him “Sunshine” Sonny Payne, he still does that show every day from
twelve o’clock until twelve-fifteen. It was back in the forties when he
started that, about 1941 or so. The King Biscuit Flour Company started
making this meal called Sonny Boy Meal. It was a sack of cornmeal
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with a picture of him on the bag, which I thought was an honorary

thing. And every year since the King Biscuit Blues Festival started,
they always bring back Robert Lockwood, Jr., and honor him because
he was a member of that band. Then they got a Sonny Boy Blues
Museum in Helena and a Sonny Boy Blues Society. I have a plaque
that shows where I’m an honorary member, and I really appreciated
that. This year, 2005, will be the twentieth year they have been doing it,
and me and Anson have done all of them since they started.
I’ll tell you what made me be a proud turkey. Out of all the musi-
cians that were there at King Biscuit, anybody that was there at the last
one saw that Robert Lockwood, Jr.’s band was uniformed to dress. It’s
a proud thing for me to say. I wasn’t dressed like his musicians, but
I was the only one in my band that had a suit on. That made me feel
really good. I said, “Hey, this is the blues!” Regardless as to how you
were dressed when you got there, if you’re going to perform before
your audience, you should look presentable. It don’t have to be a uni-
form, but when you have a suit on and you’re onstage, you’ve got that
professional look. You’re in your working clothes then. When I walk
through a crowd, it makes me feel good to have them say, “Hey, man,
you sure look nice.” Then I know I have truly laid a mark for myself.
After Robert Lockwood, Jr., left Helena, he moved up to St. Louis
and then went on to Chicago. Then Joe Willie Wilkins came in, and
he and Sonny Boy kept the group going. Then Joe Willie moved from
Helena over to Memphis, and he played around there, still using that
name, the King Biscuit Boys. He was a real good guitarist, and he also
worked with Willie Love. They did a lot of sessions at Miss McMurry’s
Trumpet studio there in Jackson. A lot of Sonny Boy’s records, Willie
Love was on them, then he had some sessions that he did on his own.
Stuff like “Little Car Blues,” “Shout Brother Shout,” “Nelson Street
Blues” and “74 Blues.” A lot of people listening at that song couldn’t
understand what was “74.” Was it just a number? But “74” was the
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number of a freight train. He mentioned, “74 rolls right by my baby’s

door / I’m going to hobo my way to Chicago / And I won’t be coming
back no more.” I had a lot of those records. He died at the VA hospi-
tal, Willie Love did, in Jackson, Mississippi, in 1953. He had a cousin,
Clayton Love, who worked with Ike Turner out of Clarksdale. I never
got a chance to meet Willie Love personally, but I really have enjoyed
his music because he used the right musicians to make his stuff work
for him. A lot of musicians today just get a lot of guys and throw
something together, just because it seems it might work. A lot of
music from the early days is being covered by up-and-coming people.
But if you ever knew the song, it would be a hard thing to recognize
it when somebody else plays it, versus going back and listening to the
original.
Getting back to Little Milton for a minute, a lot of those ses-
sions he did, he was with Willie Love before he went over to Sun
Records out of Memphis. That was his claim to fame, and he was in
the business for about fifty years. I think he really made a big mark
for himself. To me, he was a good musician, a good guitar player, he
was smooth, and he was a hellacious singer. He could sing any kind
of music that was around. I never heard him do gospel, though. I’m
pretty sure he could have if he had chosen to.
The late Willie Dixon, who’s originally from Vicksburg, Mississippi,
his regular gig after he disbanded the Big Three Trio was working with
Peter Chatman, who the world knows as Memphis Slim. He and Willie
used to work together a lot at the 708 Club, the Trianon Ballroom, the
Zanzibar, some of the same clubs that Muddy Waters used to work.
That was Willie’s regular gig when he wasn’t doing his own thing, and
he was always in the studio doing sessions. A lot of people like Chester
Burnett as the Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters, all those guys over
there at Chess, when they came in, a lot of them wanted to record
but didn’t have any material. Willie would tell them, “If you want to
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record, be at the studio at such-and-such a time and such-and-such

a date.” They’d say, “Man, I wouldn’t know what the hell to record, I
don’t have any material.” He’d say, “You just be there, you don’t even
have to bring your guitar, whichever instrument you play, you don’t
even have to bring it, unless you feel comfortable in playing it.” Willie
had a lot of songs and even supplied a lot of the musicians with
instruments to do their sessions over at Chess. That’s how they all
made it.
There were a lot of blues musicians, if they were around today, you
would be proud of them. Around the Memphis area, they still don’t
get a lot of what was due them. Guys like Joe Hill Louis. He used to
have a radio show that came on WDIA there in Memphis. It was called
“Wheelin’ on Beale” and it was done by a man named Ford Nelson.
He played the piano there, and he’s still part-time at WDIA, doing a
lot of gospel stuff on Sundays. He’s retired, but he’s sort of like Rufus
Thomas was. Rufus would do this gospel show in the mornings from
around six o’clock ’til around ten, when they started broadcasting
their remotes from the different church services. Joe Hill Louis had the
name “The One-Man Band,” because he had a drum he would play, a
bass drum, and he played guitar and a harmonica. He would sing, and
he had a rack that went around his neck for his harp. And he would do
that, like Jimmy Reed used to do on some of his shows, just sit down
and play his guitar. That’s when blues was the big thing. Then along
came B.B., and after that, a lot of guys just took the blues and swung it
with a big band sound. That is called pioneering stuff.
I’ve been asked a lot of times how do I compare today’s music
with the early days. It would be hard to really give a close-in opinion,
because everybody’s trying to sound like the next person. Like people
would say, you could be doing your own thing but they like to sort of
characterize you with somebody else: “Well, that might be yours, but
you sound like Bobby Bland or Wynonie Harris or T-Bone Walker.”
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They are always there to characterize you instead of to say, “Hey, man,
do it the way you feel it.” It’s always good to think somebody’ll hold
out a hand or you admire this person’s way of doing things, whether
there was a style development or not. All that’s good, but you can
overdo things sometimes. Like a lot of today’s music, for instance, it
can be overproduced. People like to have onstage what they use in
the studio to record with. It’s a real simple thing, like when you pass
a note or a diagram or a sheet to a sound person to what to use. You
could cut that stuff raw and for all the added sounds and stuff, just
pass it to the engineer. That’s when he goes to work. From the way
it’s all recorded now, all an engineerman has to do is just switch the
machine on, if he got the levels and everything set. You could just
record it raw and later on add on all this other stuff. Pretty soon it’s
the engineerman who’s making your record. He can make it or break
it. It’s almost like it’s the record companies that’re making the records,
not the musicians.
I never thought much of a person who can see you onstage and
watch how you are operating your instrument, and after you get
through playing the instrument, then you gotta stand around and talk
about it with him all night. I’ve never been that way. But it works for
some, and for some, it don’t. Some people can do it forever. I don’t see
no reason why they should, but that’s the way they do it. They want
to see what kind of amplifier you’re playing through, see what kind of
guitar you have. You find that amongst guitarists more than you do
any other instrument. Saxophone players, wind instruments, they do
their thing, then they all may go talk about some arrangement, but
they don’t go, “Man, why do your horn sound different from mine?”
You never have that said, simply because you’re a different person even
though you’re playing the same instrument. There’s gotta be some-
thing different, even if it’s nothing but the tone. But if it blends in
together, and it works with what’s going on, hey, you did a milestone.
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A lot of times people will ask me, why do I cover this song or that
song, instead of doing something original. Covering songs is some-
thing I never did like to do, but if I happened to cover something that
somebody else did, I always liked to put some emphasis on it to make
it my own. But after that, I might want to do a song of my own mak-
ing. The way I would go about writing a song, it don’t have to be, but
it could be, about something you see happen to a woman and a man.
Or you could be down on your luck. Or it could be about a little funny
thing that you see happen to somebody else. To keep from forgetting
it, I would jot it down in my mind. If I see something else that strikes
my attention, I get it written down by somebody right away, and I
keep on working on it until I get to what I think is the perfect song.
I was able to use either a typewriter or a Braille writer to write
down my songs. I had learned to type on both when I was at Piney
Woods. Then I would get somebody to help me. I would read out loud
what I wrote down in Braille, and they would copy it down by hand or
with a typewriter. But lately I haven’t felt up to writing it down myself,
so I would get someone to copy it down for me. I would just tell them
the song lyrics, and they’d write it down. How I’d remember a song,
I’d sing it to myself so many times until I got it locked in, that this is
what I’m going to remember. I did all of it from memory.
The main thing is, whatever you do, use your strongest effort to
try to make it better. I may go through ten or twenty pages to write
one song, but that’s what it boils down to. A lot of musicians will use a
piano or a guitar or some kind of instrument to help them work up a
song. But I do it different. I don’t even use a harp. I just mostly would
hum the melody to myself and work up the instrumentation later on
with who I’m going to get to do it with me.
One of the writers for Southwest Blues magazine here in Dallas,
Miss Joanna Iz, helped me to prepare all seven original songs I did
on my new CD. It’s called Coming from the Old School. When I went
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into the studio at Electro-Fi Records up in Canada to record the CD,

I would hum the music line to the band and just sing the words. I
already had the melody in my head, and they would pick it up. We
would work up the arrangements from there. It took us only three
days to record that CD.
It was a lot different when I recorded some albums for TJ Records.
That was Tom Boyd’s label, back more than twenty years ago. On the
first one, it was just me and a friend of mine, Tommy Lee Thompson.
I played harp and sang, and he played the guitar. It was called Down
Home in Mississippi. The engineerman had one of those portable stu-
dio things, and we went over to Tommy Lee Thompson’s house and
recorded these songs out in his garage. “Bad Acting Woman” was one
of them, and then I did a couple of instrumental things on the chro-
matic. Later on Tom took it back to California where he was living to
mix it and put it on a record. It did about as well as it could, with just
the two of us. I did about three or four more with his company. Now,
he’s not even in the business anymore. The last I heard, he was a
computer programmer out in Palo Alto, California.
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C HAP TE R 10
THE HARMONICA
Even though Sam started out playing the trumpet and the drums, he is
now far better known as one of the blues world’s premier harmonica play-
ers. He received the W. C. Handy award in 1988 for Blues Instrumentalist
of the Year—Other (Harmonica). The harmonica, or harp as it is more
commonly known in the blues, is a deceptively simple instrument.
Because of its small size and the way it is played, the observer often can-
not really discern just how a harp player is applying a given technique.
The observer can only rely on his or her ears to tell if what the harp
player is doing is to the listener’s taste. This chapter delves into some of
the intricacies of Sam’s harp technique, supported by analysis and com-
mentary by Brian “Hash Brown” Calway, one of the most popular and
knowledgeable harp players in Dallas, Texas.
I got my harmonica playing style by not copying nothing from

nobody. A lot of guys who blow harmonica will listen to another per-
son to get their niche. But I didn’t do that. I started out as a trumpet
player, and I would use horn lines on the harmonica, transposed.
That’s how I learned it, because I knew more about other instruments
than I did the harp. I don’t know about Sonny Boy Williamson, but
Little Walter, he did the same thing with the saxophone.
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That’s why his style was so unique. Sonny Stitt was one of Little
Walter’s idols. When Walter wasn’t working in Chicago, and if he went
to where Stitt was blowing, he would always keep some of Sonny’s
notes in his head and then he would go back home, or maybe go to
where a band was playing, and he would remember those notes. He
would transpose it from the saxophone to the harmonica. Then the
next time he’d have a rehearsal or just be practicing, he would try
those same riffs and notes and would work it into his harmonica.
That’s why his style was so great. If other harmonica players would do
the same thing, they could have the style just as good. It may not be
no greater, but it could be just as good as his. That’s the way I’ve been,
ever since day one. I started out as a trumpet player, but a lot of the
notes that I play, it don’t sound just like a straight run harmonica.
There’s a whole lot of harmonica players that think they are playing
the blues. But they don’t play no classic stuff like “Stardust” or “Misty.”
That’s where my style veers away from a lot of that.
I never did sit down and have somebody teach me how to blow
one; I mostly did it on my own. By listening to me play, you would say
my style of blowing might sound somewhat like what the next person
was doing, but I have different phrases than the average harmonica
player. That’s how I built up my own style. I never did listen to record-
ings and try to play along with the patterns, but I would sit down and
listen to stuff if it was something that I might want to hear. But I never
did try to play like anybody else.
Most harmonica players will blow in and out about the same,
but I more or less breathe out, not so much breathe in, through the
harmonica. I try to be careful in breathing between notes, because it
might get connected to the notes. Breathing out more than in gives
me more volume and more bottom end. You won’t hear me breath-
ing through the harmonica, because I learned to control my wind. If
you use just what wind you need to use, you don’t have to breathe so
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loud and heavy for your next approach. And a lot of harmonica play-
ers, when they take their break, they play too many notes, like they be
playing a guitar solo all over the place. I try to make my breaks sup-
port the rest of the song, to be more melodic and not be jamming or
jazzing. I’m about the only one who does it that way. I’m not one of
those lazy players who you see singing or playing the blues. Instead
of expressing themselves or the words they’re singing, they’re just like
somebody who’s reading a True Detective magazine or something.
I really don’t like playing the harmonica. Everybody expects to
see me doing it, so I want to make my audience happy, but I just don’t
enjoy playing it like I used to. I depend on my voice as a singer. If I had
a choice, I would just sing and not play as much harp. It gets me bent
sideways when somebody sees me when I’m out and they say, “Hey,
man, where’s your harp?” If you see a carpenter out somewhere, do
you say, “Where’s your hammer?” But I don’t have to depend on being
a harp player; I’m first a singer. I don’t have to fall back on it, like a
guitar player or a piano player has got to do.
Unlike a lot of harp players, I don’t like to blow a lot of stuff in the
same key. I like to blow in all the standard keys, if I can, and play the
chromatic, that’s the big long one with the button on the end. I can
take a chromatic, and if the guitar player is pretty shifty about what he
or she is doing, I can take that chromatic and make it sound like a big
orchestra. Playing chord riffs, stuff like that. But the harp players who
play in just one or two keys, after a while it sounds like they’re playing
the same song. On any night, I might play in about five different keys:
A, C, then G, then that’ll put you in a D. I carry seven harps in my
sash, I fill all the pockets up. But usually I play four harps in a night.
They are A, B-flat, C, and G, they’re the ones that I blow the most.
Sometimes, if I’m playing a slow blues, I’m going to add the harp
part to it where, a lot of times, there’d be a guitar. I can change keys
without changing harps, depending on what the song is. That’s called
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blowing cross. I’d be using an A harp, and the next harp would be an
E. But if I start in the natural key of A, then I’d be blowing cross into
E, like a Jimmy Reed style. I do that by blowing down instead of out.
You can do that with a C harp and draw in with the key of G. A B-flat
blows out B-flat, and when you suck in, it’s F. And then you can go to
what is called the third position and you would be in the key of C. It’s
really strange how it all works.
Ha sh Br ow n:
I lived with Sam for two years and took a lot of lessons from him and
asked a lot of questions about his playing. He started playing trumpet
when he was really young, and I think that helped develop his harmonica
playing style in a lot of ways. His phrasing, his note selection, and the
fact that he doesn’t use a lot of vibrato like a lot of harmonica players do.
He’ll use what’s commonly referred to by harmonica players as a flutter,
which is a shaking of the head back and forth to make two notes move.
A vibrato is done by a shaking of the hands instead of the head.
There are two different schools of thought on harmonica playing.
One way is to play purse-lipped, where you keep your tongue off of the
harp to get your sound. The other way is to use your tongue to block the
notes. A lot of players from Sam’s era either used both methods or did a
lot of purse-lipped playing. I believe Sonny Boy Williamson used the first
way and Rice Miller used both. Sonny Terry would use more purse-lipped
than using his tongue on the harp. Sam always leaves his tongue on the
harp when he plays, which makes his approach a little different from
those players who split between purse-lipped and using their tongues.
Sam mentioned to me once that he likes Sonny Boy a lot more than he
likes Little Walter. But he listens to so much music, that I know that from
playing with him over the years so many times that he probably knows
every Little Walter song inside and out, all the lyrics, and all the harmon-
ica riffs. I’ve tried to stump him numerous times when he’d come play
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with us. I’d pull a song out and just start playing it, and he’d know all
the lyrics, the arrangement of the song, and where all the harmonica licks
were and what they were. He is very well studied because he has a very,
very well-developed ear in that area. A lot of people think he tends to get
crotchety when he’s onstage, as far as what he wants and what he doesn’t
want. I think that’s because it’s hard for him to communicate what he
does want. He’s really adept at playing Chicago and Mississippi shuffle
style blues. If someone doesn’t know the style, or isn’t used to that kind
of playing, he may come across as being kind of heavy-handed in trying
to tell them what to do. A lot of people misunderstand that as Sam just
being a jerk about it. I don’t see it that way at all. I see it more as when
Sam tries to communicate what he wants, he’s more old school about it
than some people would like him to be, because they’re not practiced in
those styles. He’s very old school in a lot of ways, as far as hearing some-
thing he doesn’t like. He would definitely say something about it pretty
quick.
His harmonica style to me is classic, late-1940s-to-1950s Chicago-
Mississippi harmonica playing. Some of the other players in that style
would be Snooky Pryor, Little Walter and Big Walter, Rice Miller, and
Billy Boy Arnold. There are quite a few players who play in that style
of harmonica language, as I would call it. That’s not saying that Sam
couldn’t write a modern tune, but rather that he’s decided to carry on
those styles. He’ll be modest and say that he doesn’t really play that much
harmonica, but he really loves it and he does have a unique way of run-
ning his phrases. In other words, he doesn’t just copy someone else’s style
on the harmonica. He might hint at some Little Walter or Sonny Boy
Number One or Rice Miller, but overall it’s a uniquely Sam Myers sound
in the way he plays.
He’s told me a few times that he got to play quite a bit with Jimmy
Rogers. Sam hung out with Jimmy more than Muddy Waters, because
Jimmy went out of his way to befriend Sam when he moved to Chicago.
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T H E H A R MON ICA
So I think that the harmonica style that Sam developed had something to
do with the time he spent playing with Jimmy Rogers. He did play some
harmonica when he was with Elmore James, but I think he did more
drum work with Elmore than anything else. He told me that during the
sessions he did with Elmore for “Poor Little Angel Child” and “Look on
Yonder Wall,” where Elmore was playing guitar, Sam played harmonica
on several songs that were never released.
Sam developed a unique way to get a very, very fat tone by using the
air within his hands cupped together. The way he does this is to turn the
amp up a little hotter and then not blow as hard through the harmonica,
and use his hands to squeeze the air tighter around the harmonica. That
gives it a fatter and fuller sound.
Sam’s years of playing trumpet probably influenced his harp playing.
A lot of harp players also played other wind instruments like the trum-
pet or saxophone. If you listen to some of Sam’s early work, the way he
phrases the harmonica is probably imitative of his phrasing on the trum-
pet. He uses a lot of short, staccato style phrasing, with no vibrato at
the end of the notes. He will use vibrato from time to time, but of all
the harmonica players I’ve heard, he’s one who does not rely on a lot of
vibrato to end his phrases.
A lot of harmonica players nowadays like to play with more of a
distorted sound, but Sam comes from the old school where his sound
comes through a clean amplifier, even if it’s a Fender Bassman amp. He’ll
push the sound of it a little bit by cupping and squeezing his hands and
get a little bit of distortion that way, but the sound that comes out of his
amp is almost always very clean, fat and full. Sam will direct the airflow
when using tongue-blocking by placing his tongue to the left side of the
reed that he’s going to blow out of, and the side of his mouth to the right
side of the hole. Sometimes he’ll put his tongue in the center and suck or
blow out of both sides of his mouth to get a chord. But when he’s playing
single notes, he’s blocking all the air off with the side of his mouth on one
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T H E H A R MON ICA
set of reeds and using his tongue to block the other reeds, and he’s blow-
ing through just one, or maybe two, reeds at a time. This gives him a sort
of a Louisiana or Mississippi country kind of style, which is a really nice
effect.
Sam used to favor Hohner Marine Band harmonicas, but in recent
years he’s switched to the Hohner Meisterklasse. Right now he’s got a
full set of those, and when the reed plates go, he gets the Big River harps
and takes the reed plates out of those and puts them in the Meisterklasse
because they’re a little bit cheaper. The Marine Bands don’t have the
quality that they used to. Plus the wood combs on the Marine Bands
would shrink and swell and sometimes cut his mouth, so he switched
to the Meisterklasse, which has an alloy comb. He also plays a Super 64
Chromonica for his chromatic work.
[ 107 ]
C HAP TE R 11
THE MUSICIANS’ UNION
Organized labor unions for musicians have been in existence for almost
a hundred years. Today’s American Federation of Musicians seems to
be oriented mostly towards providing its members, especially those in
symphonic orchestras, with insurance and retirement benefits. But back
during World War II, James C. Petrillo ruled the union with an iron fist.
Interestingly, his middle name was Caesar, and he was the undisputed
emperor of the musicians’ union for decades. Petrillo was president of
his Chicago local from 1918 until 1940 when he ascended to the national
presidency, which he held until 1958. He was so powerful that he
was able to single-handedly bring the recording industry to a near
standstill during what became known as “Petrillo’s War.” He became
embroiled in a dispute with the few major record companies of the
time over royalties that he wanted paid to members for every record
pressed. To drive his point home, Petrillo banned all commercial
recordings by union members from 1942 to 1944 and again in 1948,
when the record companies and the union finally reached a settlement.
He may have put a few more dollars in his members’ pockets, but an
unfortunate casualty of Petrillo’s War was the nascent modern jazz era.
Few, if any, recordings were made of the earliest developments of the
bebop style, although its most important proponents eventually went
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T H E MU S ICIA N S ’ U N ION
on to record. But it remains unknown how much of that rich musical

heritage was lost.
No doubt a few individuals at the top levels of the union enjoyed
prosperity no matter what happened to the music industry, but whether
or not the musicians’ union was always beneficial to individual members
is a matter of opinion.
The musicians’ union had some good things that they would do.
When you joined the union, you paid your dues, and when you played
a union house you got the scale. The house would book bands that
had a union contract, and then they automatically would become a
union club and would share some of the profits with the union. What
they would do, the union had a number of clubs that they would book
for you. In the early days of the union, to use the word “musician” you
had to be put through a test to become a union musician. There was
an audition, and if you could pass that test, automatically you would
become a member. Then you paid your dues and you were in. They
had a field man that went around with a big book, and if you was sit-
ting in with a band that wasn’t union, and it wasn’t a union club, they
warned you about it. If they caught you playing and your name wasn’t
on the chart, you’d be the topic of the evening at the union house. If
you wasn’t a union member, they’d pull you off the stage. Then they’d
go talk with the bandleader. The bandleader would have to promise
them, if you were going to be working with them, you’d just have to go
down to the local and get a permit. It didn’t cost much back then for
the person to work. Then you’d get union scale, because that’s the way
the rest of them did it. When you became a unionized musician, they
gave you a permit to work until you got your card.
When I took the test, it was over the instruments that I could play.
You were supposed to be able to master three. Singing wouldn’t neces-
sarily have to be a part of it, but it usually was. But if you were going
[ 109 ]
on as a singer and a musician, you had to be able to play so many dif-

ferent instruments and you had to be able to sing so many different
styles. For the test, there would be a whole band there. They’d put a
chart in front of you, and then everybody played along with you. You’d
be playing different stuff, and then before that song is over you might
go through about two or three different instruments. Then you’d do
the same way about singing. If you only did blues, they wouldn’t call
you a musician. Or if you was only a vocalist doing blues, they’d say
you was only a blues vocalist. But if you was a musician and a vocal-
ist, you had to do about four or five different styles. So I started out
playing trumpet, then I went to do a gospel thing. The guy said, “Well,
so much for that,” and I said, “Yeah. How far back do you want me to
go?” He said, “No, you’ve gone back far enough.”
With James C. Petrillo, a lot of that stuff was going on. He came
from New York, and he was the head of the American Federation of
Musicians, Local 208. He had another guy in charge if he wasn’t there,
a Mr. Cooks. He was head of the branch in Chicago. But he was origi-
nally from a branch of Local 802 out of New York that used to handle
off-Broadway, the Broadway musicals and jazz. They would give you a
booklet on what you’re supposed to do and what you’re not supposed
to do. A lot of times it would work, because some guy might come
into town and have everything in his band but one certain instrument.
If your name was on that bulletin board, then you’d get a gig if you
wasn’t working. They had such musicians as would stay around the
union hall just in case. If a session come up, they would use them on
that. A lot of guys made a living doing that, and a lot of them messed
their living up by doing it, abusing their privileges, like Elmore James.
He had been in and out of the union so many times, been black-
balled so many times. I never will forget, most of the gigs that he did
was on his own. If they found out he was playing a club, they’d call
the manager and say, “If you book this guy, if he plays your club, you’ll
[ 110 ]
never play nobody else.” The union was just that strong at the time.
But so many people came along who abused their privileges, until now
all the union wants is your money. They’ll get you a little something to
do every now and then but not like they used to. They used to be very
strict. But it was the musicians that abused the privileges that they
had. It’s a very bad thing.
Nowadays, they have insurance for their members. If your instru-
ments got messed up or stolen, they can take care of that for you. But
you’ve got to list your instruments, just like a car, through the union.
Like a car can become a total loss, if you’re a standing member of the
union, you’ve got the same type of insurance, and they get you new
ones. They have health insurance and retirement for you, too, just like
a regular job. I don’t understand why Texas is a right-to-work state,
where you don’t have to be in the union to work. Back in the Don
Robey days, when I was in and out of Houston, if you wasn’t union,
you wasn’t recognized. Nowadays nobody seems to care if you’re
union or not.
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C HAP TE R 12
THE RECORD BUSINESS
Thomas Edison invented the phonograph in 1876 and began selling it in

1887. It wasn’t long before the recording industry took off, and the
various sharks, con men, and rip-off artists that already plagued the
world of live entertainment came right along behind. History does not
give us the name of the first recorded musician to be cheated out of
what royalties should have accrued to him or her, but the first one started
a long chain that continues unbroken to this day. This cheating takes
two basic forms. One way is to persuade a musician to sign a disadvanta-
geous contract that would pay some small up-front cash or provide
some other gain such as a car, but no royalties thereafter. This was an
easy thing for the postwar record companies to do, as many of the older
blues artists were limited in their ability to read and understand con-
tracts and were often misled by aggressive recording company officials.
The other way would be to promise royalties or even put them into the
contract and then simply not pay them. Most musicians who found
themselves in this predicament had little or no recourse, because they
lacked the money or knowledge of how to fight for their legal rights. The
cruelest irony for a musician is to write a song and perform it for a
while, lose the rights to that song, and then watch as other artists come
along, take the material to record, and reap a handsome payday.
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T H E R ECOR D B U S IN ES S
Sam Myers has been mulling over his own experience with this for almost
fifty years.
Making a record back in the old days was a lot different than it is now.
I liked recording in Chicago or New York better than I did anywhere
in the South. For one reason, I never did like it if I had written a song
and somebody were to tell me how to sing it, and they can’t carry a
tune in a bucket. The next thing is, if you got your music set to a song
the way you want it to go, you’re not supposed to let nobody in the
studio change your format around. If you want to add instruments
and they’re playing the right thing, that’s fine. But, man, don’t take
away anything. I don’t like that.
The engineerman was the one calling the shots, or it would be
between him and the guy who was handling the record. He would tell
you to play it until it sounded right, then you’d go to your next one
and you’d do it the same. It may be that something might stand out a
little stronger than what you would put into it. That would be good,
but don’t change the whole thing around unless you know the music.
Now, all that was fine, but I do not like a lot of today’s sessions, the way
people do them. They even got to where, instead of doing stuff raw and
clear in the studio, they’ve gotten into this computer-type thing, com-
puter horns and synthesizers. Now the reason why that is, there used
to be a time when you could still find a good engineer. Now, you might
want it done this certain way, but the producer has got the money.
During the early days, the musicians would tell the producer to get the
hell away with his money. But now the producers want something done
the way they want it done, and they don’t respect the music. Like when
Elmore recorded, they never did tell him how to play it. They would
say, “Well, what you played, you played too much.” Or, “You didn’t play
it strong enough.” Or, “You was a little off the mic when you was sing-
ing it.” But other than that, he would just run it off. Bam! Do it!
[ 113 ]
One of the worst things they did back in the early days of record-
ing was to record so much stuff until they had enough material to last
them until the musician should happen to die. So if they’d be dead
and gone there’d be about three or four more records to come out
after that. They would just cut, cut, cut until they’d get something
good, and then they’d just put a lot of stuff back on the shelf. You
wouldn’t hear about it until later, after they’re gone. But what they
did, they tried to be near right about it as possible, no computer saxo-
phones or stuff like that. No, no. That’s where it was so much different
back then. Most of the stuff we did, like what Elmore did, you just run
it down on one take and then, if that sounded like it was pretty much
right, we’d say, “So why don’t we hold this one?” Then you do another
one, and they’d tell you, “Look, put a little bit more groove into it.”
Then when you did that, boom! That’s it. Two takes and you got it.
The best studios I worked at back then were J&M in New Orleans
and Chess in Chicago. What made them special was that the vocalist
was separated from the band. You had headphones on, and the vocal-
ist would be closed off from the band in a little booth. Everybody had
headphones so you could hear what’s going on. That way, you didn’t
have any bleed-over tracks in that soundproof booth. Everybody could
hear one another, and the engineer would just turn up his mic and his
headphones to where he could hear himself along with the band. In a
case like Elmore’s, when he was singing and playing guitar, they had
him either of two ways. They could have him out with the band. They
had these things they’d put around his head, kind of like baffles, where
the other instruments wouldn’t bleed into him. Course, they wouldn’t
be right up under one another, they’d be spread out. But with every-
body wearing headphones, they could hear what the next man was
doing. And then the other way, Elmore might be in an isolation booth.
When I was playing drums over at Chess I had a booth. They couldn’t
fit nothing in there but me and my drums. They’d close the door and
[ 114 ]
mic everything. Like, “The Sky Is Crying” and stuff like that, they had
it mic’d real good. On “Set a Date” and “Can’t Hold Out,” they had a
little echo thing going. It was really nice.
I remember one time in New Orleans, though. Cosimo Matassa,
he had just built a new studio. He was one of the best engineers in the
south, he taught a lot of people. His studio was at Governor Nicholls
and Decatur Street in New Orleans. Before that he had one on Camp
Street. They recorded everybody there. He used to be with Sea-Saint,
the studio run by Marshall Sehorn and Allen Toussaint, before he got
into some trouble with the feds. Cosimo had built a new addition to
his studio, and he owed the federal government in back taxes. I’ll tell
you how he did that. A lot of his sessions he did was what they called
“lamplight sessions.” That means there wasn’t no lights burning in
the studio, just like it’s closed at night. They just had lamps, so if the
union man drove by accidentally, he wouldn’t see no lights and he’d go
on. It’d be on a night when ain’t nothing was supposed to be happen-
ing. Not even posted on the union books. Well, somehow they caught
that son of a gun, back in 1959. They had a guy to come in who was
supposed to be a hell of a musician. But sometimes, if you are really
into captivating what’s on a person’s mind, you can see if something’s
strange. He came in like everything looked real funny to him. He kept
asking, “What’s this? What’re you doing with this? How do you do
this?” Then he would throw it on the guys like, “I can play the music to
a lot of songs, but all these different instruments, what are they for?”
Actually he was a federal guy. He worked for the FBI, and he came in
posing as a musician to get the low-down on the lamplight sessions.
That’s how Elmore did a lot of his sessions, but this particular ses-
sion wasn’t Elmore. It was some guys out of Jackson, Mississippi, who
they were recording, and they was also recording Lee Dorsey. He got a
big hit record out of that session called “Get Out of My Life, Woman.”
That was a big one for him. He also recorded “Ya Ya,” the one that
[ 115 ]
goes, “Sittin’ on my la la, waitin’ on my Ya Ya.” That was a cut from a

lamplight session. He also did some records for Bobby Robinson on
Fury.
So, what the FBI guy did, he just wandered around the studio, say-
ing things like, “Oh, I like that part,” and he called Cosimo “Cos,” just
like he had been knowing him all the time. He didn’t say the kind of
things a musician would, like, “Hey, would you play that back for me?
Let me hear what I did, so I know how to balance the rest of it out.”
I was pretty skeptical about stuff like that. Now here comes this guy,
new in town, don’t know anybody, actin’ stupid like there wasn’t noth-
ing going on, he didn’t know nothing, but how did he happen to know
Cos by name? Nobody had introduced nobody to nobody; we all just
came in and started recording.
So, he was talking with Cos and he said, “Well, Cos, that sounded
good,” and we kept on until we got that part right. And then he said,
“Well, it’s a done deal,” you know, like everything was over with. He
said, “Yep, everything is done, it looks like it’s going to be done for a
long time.” And then everybody laughed, like, “What the heck is this
guy talking about?” He had this little thing in a horn case. He reached
in and hit a button and all of a sudden, these guys start knocking on
the door. Cos said, “Well, heck, don’t nobody know that we’re here,
but I’m still going to go see who it is,” and he walked to the door to
open it and tell them they wasn’t open for business. When he opened
the door, the guys just pushed it wide and came on in. And this FBI
musician said, “Yep, just like I said, looks like it’s going to be a long
time before there’s going to be another one.” Then everybody was
surprised. I thought there was something funny going on, but I didn’t
ever speak right out; that’d be a dead giveaway. So I was right in what
I thought, because he gave us all a break. He said, “Well, you guys
are not the ones that we want.” He named ’em off: Marshall Sehorn,
Bobby Robinson, and Cosimo Matassa. Cos was the main one, that’s
[ 116 ]
who they wanted. The FBI man asked us all to leave. Well, naturally,
we didn’t want to go to jail, so we just got the heck out of there.
Back in the old days at Chess, Willie Dixon ran the show in the
recording studio. It wouldn’t take them a long time to get it together
to rehearse and record. Most of the times, what Willie would do, he
would play it along with them. Then, if they wanted to do it a
different way, as long as they used the song, they’d run in and do that.
Before the day is gone, they’d record it. When all this would be hap-
pening, the guys, instead of recording just enough to do an LP, they
would be in the studio recording different takes on different songs to
see how many they could record. A session to them was something like
fifty to a hundred songs. That would be a twelve-, fourteen-, sixteen-
hour stretch of work, sometimes more than that. We’d go in around
two in the afternoon, and we’d record all night. From the time we’d go
in, getting the arrangements and recording it, getting a good balance
on the tape, we’d record enough songs that would last us until maybe
six or seven o’clock in the morning. If the guys wanted coffee, some-
body would leave out at midnight and go pick up some coffee and
bring it back to the studio. They’d take a break just long enough to eat
a snack and have some coffee. A lot of them, the reasons their records
sound so wavy, they would always be having a drink during the ses-
sion. They may say, “We’re going to do this with such and such a
musician,” and then sometimes they’d just do so many with whoever’s
in the studio to record with them. There were better recordings then,
because you didn’t have a session like an open door thing. A lot of
times nowadays, anybody can come in off the street, enter in your
session, and interrupt you. “If I was you, I’d play it like this, or I
would do this, I would do that.” Back then the only way you would
be able to get into the studio is if you were affiliated with the session.
People just couldn’t come and go as they pleased. That’s what messes
up a lot of records nowadays. You know, they think you’re having a
[ 117 ]
party, and everybody gets to have their input. But somehow they
get it done.
When Elmore James was recording, he would just run one song
down with the band, and on the second one, that would be the first
take of it. After about three takes, it’s a done deal. He would just pick
something at random, come up with a beat, and everybody would
just blend in. Most of his stuff he did that way was slide; it sounds
somewhat the same anyway. He would use different notes, but his
early material was basically the same unless he recorded something
with a horn section. I have a lot of friends in this modern technol-
ogy deal, but I like to take my hat off to the guys from the old school
who’re gone and some who’re still around. To me, that’s just common
courtesy. They were the pioneers that showed the way; it had never
been done before them. You should always give respect to your peers.
In 1964, there was a gentleman named Willie Roy Sanders who
recorded an early version of a song called “Crosscut Saw.” He was
a construction worker; he and Albert King had worked together
doing road construction on some jobs in the upper western part of
Arkansas, and from there back down to West Memphis, building high-
ways and clearing land for other stuff to be built. When Willie Roy’s
record came out, “Crosscut Saw” was the number one blues song at
radio station WDIA in Memphis. The people who Willie Roy had a
contract with, somehow they decided to go with Albert King instead,
and later on he recorded that same song. He stepped it up a little bit,
and that’s the way he made it his own. Now everybody knows it as
Albert King’s song, and he didn’t even write it. Willie Roy didn’t get no
money from doing his own version, either.
There’s one thing I can say, even back from day one, and that’s
people always want to point the finger at the white musician for
stealing the black man’s music. But the thing with Albert King and
Willie Roy Sanders, that was black on black, against black. That’s not
[ 118 ]
the only thing that has happened. Black musicians have been doing
that stuff since day one, taking and ripping one another off. They all
look at it like, “The white man did this, the white man did that.” It has
always been a rip-off thing with either race of musicians. It’s sad, but
it’s true.
It used to be that you could just change some words in the song,
and then you say it was your own. If you want to have a hit record out
there with somebody else’s song, the right thing to do is to contact the
sole owner who has the copyright to that song and get their permis-
sion. But now, with the public domain thing, a person can record any-
thing that you’ve recorded. It could be your song, but after thirty years
they would not have to give you a dime or even get your permission to
do it. The law says you can do that, but to me it’s a wrong thing. The
music business has had its ups and downs and its rights and its wrongs
ever since day one. It’s just something that you have to deal with. But
if there was a way that you could get money for it, it would be a good
thing. Like with “Sleeping in the Ground,” there’s a whole lot of people
today who know that I wrote it, but they’ll tell me, “Man, you don’t
own nothing.” But if it’s my own words, my lyrics and my own com-
position, then why don’t I own it? The law says after thirty years it’s
public domain, but that didn’t do me no good before the thirty years
was up.
There are many others who haven’t gotten what’s rightfully due to
them on their music. Other people would have to record their mate-
rial before it would be recognized that they were the ones who did it.
I’m one that falls right into that category. Personally speaking, I don’t
want just anything. I want specifically one thing, and that’s what’s
rightfully mine.
I said all that just to say one thing: as long as there is music, there’s
gonna be a way that somebody is going to try to connive and down-
grade you in what you’re doing. If I had thought about doing back
[ 119 ]
then what I have in mind to do now, “Sleeping in the Ground” would

never have appeared on records done by a whole lot of people that are
doing great for themselves, but I’m not getting a dime.
There are a lot of musicians who have released that song, and the
only thing I ever got from it was a name as the writer of that song. It’s
all right to have a name, but where could you spend that at? I asked
Johnny Vincent about it once, and he said that different people had
recorded it, and as soon as he got some royalties on it, I would, too.
The next thing I know he had sold his company, then the next thing
after that, he died.
Robert Cray and Eric Clapton and several other people whose
names I do not know have recorded “Sleeping in the Ground.” That
particular song is on at least ten other records. It was on Eric Clapton’s
deal twice; he had a box set with it that went platinum. But not a dime
for me, though. So what can you say about that? People ask me to do
the song, and I say, “I don’t mean to be rude in no way, but as soon
as I get some money for doing this song, I’ll be too glad to sing it for
you.” Some people understand, but some people look at it like me
being smart.
If anybody wants to know the meaning behind “Sleeping in the
Ground,” the song explains itself, simply because anybody who does
any writing of any song usually does nothing but tell a story that faces
the facts of life. A song has a pattern, just like anything else. A song
could be a story, or a story can be divided up into a song. It’s about
everyday things, as facts about life itself. “I’d rather see you / Sleeping
in the ground / Than to be around here / Knowing you’re going to
put me down.” That explains itself. The purpose of the whole thing is,
you’re telling the story of a loved one who was there only for what
was in it for them. You gave them all the money you had and every-
thing that you owned. Being conscious of it, meaning that one day,
even though you know it would be the wrong thing to happen, you’d
[ 120 ]
like to see that person sleeping in the ground. You might wonder
yourself, why would you even want to be around, when you know
she’s about to put you down? You know it’s happening because as soon
as you get broke during this relationship, it’s better to be away from
that person.
A lot of songs that I’ve written myself and recorded for other
people, I’ve gotten royalties from, but not “Sleeping in the Ground.”
I recorded it again on Black Top for Hammond and the late Nauman
Scott. I thought I was treated fairly by them because my contract was
up when I recorded it on one of the Anson Funderburgh and the
Rockets records. I think they treated me fairly about that, for me not
to be a recording artist for them. It was just being on somebody else’s
record, but it was my song.
We’re going to go way back a number of years to what happened
with the late John Lee Hooker, who was originally from Clarksdale,
Mississippi. He left home at an early time, back in the forties, went
to Chicago and hung around awhile and then went to Detroit. He
played the original clubs there like Henry’s Swing Club and vari-
ous bars around the area and all over the south and west sides of
Detroit. Henry’s Swing Club was on Hastings Street before they cut
the expressway across it. That used to be the street in Detroit for the
blues. John Lee Hooker used to play there and he wrote this song,
“Boogie Chillen.” During that time, he recorded other songs that he
wrote, like “Sally Mae,” “Devil’s Stomp,” “Nightmare Blues,” and a Big
Joe Williams tune, “Baby Please Don’t Go.” He did these recordings
under an assumed name, “Texas Slim.” He may have been under some
kind of commitment or contract that he wasn’t able to draw any roy-
alties under his name, so he recorded under that name in order to get
paid. But people, they knew it was John Lee Hooker when they heard
his record. A lot of times the name protects the innocent, but if you’re
innocent, what kind of name would you have to use other than your
[ 121 ]
own, to protect yourself? He died a few years ago, just when he had
begun to draw royalties from back-written songs that he did. John Lee
and Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown are two people from that industry
who, along with myself, have come up against this sort of thing. They
were the ones I know personally who didn’t get a lot of the money
due them.
Don Robey kept Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown off the rolls for
right at almost twenty years. He was working for Don and recording
a lot of material that was his own. This was at Duke Records out of
Houston, Texas. A lot of the people that recorded for that label wound
up just making records and a big name for themselves, but no money.
A lot of guys back then thought on the same level, to cheat you out of
what little you had. They would say, “Hey, man, you got a big record
here, you need to hit the road, they’re waitin’ for you.” They had an
old saying that was a bad thing, and I never did like for nobody to call
me that. “You got a big record out there. Go get ’em, tiger!” Go get
what? You’re not getting any money, what is out there for you to go
get? The money’s there, but are you getting it?
For a lot of the Elmore James sessions I was on, I didn’t get more
than the session pay, and that was all I was supposed to have gotten.
Course I never did write any of Elmore James’s songs, and I don’t
expect nothing from that. I was just a member of his band. But stuff
that’s rightfully mine, I figure if it’s a song that I wrote, then I deserve
to get my money for that.
Like all those Jimmy Reed records, over there at Vee-Jay Records.
Jimmy was forty-eight when he died; his wife, Mary, was living on
welfare, and she didn’t get a dime for his music. I feel like people
should have that equalization of what they got going, what is right-
fully theirs. But you got shysters everywhere, man. Take Freddie King.
Look at what a Dallas wimp did to him. After Freddie King died, some
kind of way he got his hands on the plates and the rights of Freddie
[ 122 ]
King’s material. By Freddie King being a Texas guy, this guy went to
his wife and got all of Freddie’s songs that hadn’t been released and
dumped it off on Black Top Records. They made a little money off it,
too. But at a time when it could have been done better and made some
better money, Black Top went out of business. It was just a downhill
situation.
[ 123 ]
C HAP TE R 13
STORIES FROM THE ROAD
Any musician who has traveled the world and played with the wide range
of artists that Sam Myers has is bound to have a treasure trove of humor-
ous anecdotes. Anson Funderburgh, Sam’s bandleader, collaborator, and
friend for some twenty years, also contributes a trio of road stories. The
stories that follow are not quite as colorful as some that the author has
heard, but they have the virtue of being printable.
When I was with King Mose and the Royal Rockers back in 1957, we had
a real good group; we were real friendly with each other. Unlike a
lot of musicians, we were playing just as many or even more of the
white business establishments than the other bands. We played at
different fraternities at Ole Miss in Oxford, Mississippi, and at Missis-
sippi State in Starkville. I never will forget one fraternity party that we
played. It was for the gentlemen of Pi Kappa Alpha and their sorority.
This man walked up with a half-gallon of corn whiskey, but he did
not want me to have a drink. He told King Mose, “All you guys can have
some except for Sam, because he rolled his eyes at me.” So Mose told
the guy, “No, that’s just the way the guy’s eyes is. He’s partially blind.”
The guy said, “Oh, I’m sorry about that.” Now Mose had a fifth of
Early Times which me and him were drinking on. He said to the guy,
[ 124 ]
S T OR IES F R OM T H E R OA D
“Me and Sam will have a drink out of my bottle, just for you saying
that.” I said, “I have to have some water or something like a soft drink
to chase it with.” The only thing they had to drink was RC Cola. Mose
said, “I drinks mine straight,” and I said, “That’s why you can wind up
being drunker than me.” He laughed, but I wound up at the end of
the night drunker than he was. Anytime when you drink liquor with a
soda, it’s the sweetness along with the fumes of the liquor that makes
you drunk, so it’s better to drink it with water. We laughed about
it after that.
There was a song that I had listened to Bobby “Blue” Bland do,
one of his all-time hits called “Turn on Your Love Light.” The same
particular night, Mose had just gotten out of the hospital for a hem-
orrhoid operation, and he was getting ready for us to take a break so
he could go use the washroom. I was really bent sideways with him,
because they all were drinking amongst themselves, and I had to drink
with this guy after him saying that I rolled my eyes at him. So right at
the end of the part where I was supposed to sing, “I get so lonely in the
middle of the night / I need you darling, everything will be all right /
Turn on your love light and let it shine on me,” instead I sang, “Turn
it up, turn it up!” and I just kept on singing. Mose was trying to give
me the signal to end the song because he had to go to the washroom.
I kind of hated that I did that afterwards, but I really did put him
through something.
Then by it being during the winter months, we had to ride in a ’46
Roadmaster Buick with our instruments and all of us piled up in
the car. He did use the washroom, but it was on himself and we had
to ride all the way from Starkville to our next gig in Greenville, Missis-
sippi, to play at the Elks Lodge, with him not going to the washroom
like he should’ve went. He said, “Man, the next time somebody tell
you to stop a song, you will.” I said, “Hey, man, we had a groove going;
I couldn’t just stop.” He said, “Well, you’ll know the next time.” He
[ 125 ]
wasn’t a man who would take whatever you do against your pay; he
would always figure out something else. But I would always be staying
one step ahead of him.
I had some spyglasses made by a good friend of mine that worked
in a welding shop. He took the glass part out of each one of the eyes
of this pair of binoculars, and they would hold about a pint of liquor
apiece. I had him to melt some lead to pour into it and seal the eye
part up. We played at Forest City, Arkansas, between Little Rock and
Memphis, in the summer, at the Forest City Country Club. That was
about one of the saddest gigs that I ever remember playing, because
we asked for water and nobody had any water or sodas for us, just for
the audience. I said, “Man, we should got us some bottled water or
something, ’cause this is going to be a hard gig to play.” We played a
whole four-hour gig without a drop of anything to drink but me. I
didn’t have a soda or nothing to chase the liquor that I had with me in
those spyglasses, so I was higher and feeling better than any of them
there. They said, “Man, you got something going on, you on some
kind of drugs?” I said, “No, only Jack Daniel’s.” They was really bent
sideways with me about doing that!
We went on after that to Memphis to play the King Cotton Festival.
Instead of it being a big outdoor festival, it was in different clubs in
different parts of the city. We all went to set up our instruments at the
club, and everybody was hungry. My lady friend at the time, who was
my son Willie Earl’s mother, had fixed me up with a big bag of chicken
sandwiches. I told the boys, “Every man for himself,” just teasing ’em. I
had three dollars and twenty cents, and when we stopped at this liquor
store on Beale Street right off of Third, I went on in to get me a pint of
Ballantine scotch. Matter of fact, Elmore was with us then, with King
Mose. He had left Chicago to go with us. This was about in the sum-
mer of ’57, and everybody was broke. If they had enough change, maybe
they could chip in together and maybe got one meal for one person
[ 126 ]
and split it up. But I had the three dollars and some few cents on my
own, so I went and got my liquor and I took a big drink. Elmore says to
me, “Man, you know, we all here, I got a little cash, and we all hungry.
You don’t believe in sharing, do you?” I said, “Sure. But if you got some
money, you can get you something to eat and you could have a drink
with me. Why don’t you just buy some food and then we’ll all eat. But
otherwise I drinks by myself.” I kept my liquor to myself, but I shared
out that big bag of sandwiches with the boys.
Around Chicago, when I wasn’t working anywhere or if I had
an off night, I would always get out to see some of the cats I never
did hang with over on the West Side, unless I was doing my gig with
Elmore James at Silvio’s. I’d go and see a lot of the guys, but mainly
the Howlin’ Wolf. Strange as it may seem, if you’re a man that’s thirty
or forty years old, as long as you’re not being obnoxious or anything
of the sort, you’re supposed to be able to do what you want to, within
reason. But over the years, a lot of people never did know of this hap-
pening, but the Wolf would whip the members of his group like they
were kids. They were not allowed to have a drink unless he approved
it. He would always tell the guys when they’d take a break, “All right
now, watch yourself !” He’d be sittin’ there having a scotch or rum with
his friends, and he’d be telling his band, “All right, look out there, the
Wolf got his eye on you!” He would take them back into the dressing
room and whup them like they was little kids. Not many people may
have heard that over the years, but it was true. By him being as tight as
he was, he ran a tight group, and then he kept a good band better than
most of the guys did. If they were onstage and one of them messed up
a song or something, the same thing happened. Wolf said to me one
night, “I’ve seen you play with a lot of guys, but you’ve never come
up on my bandstand.” I said, “Wolf, I tell you what, I don’t know you
that well, but for me and you to be good friends it would be best for
me not to do that, because of the way I am. If you made a mistake
[ 127 ]
and forgot that I wasn’t a member of your band, I don’t care how big
you are, they don’t have no work in the penitentiary for a blind man.
’Cause, man, I’d kill you!” He just said, “Heh, heh, heh, we gonna always
be friends.” I said, “Yeah, no other way to do but be friends. ’Cause the
day that happen to me, they’ll either have a double funeral, or yours.”
He just laughed some more and went on.
Elmore used to have a saying, “You run your mouth, but I run
my business.” There was a lady that Robert Lockwood, Jr., used to run
with. He just up and gave her to Elmore after he decided he didn’t
want her no more. Lockwood was working at Silvio’s as the house
bandleader. Different musicians would come by on different nights
to play in a jam. They held them a lot different back then than the
way they do now. Like you see across Texas, they do a lot of open
mic stuff, but back then these jams would be professional people dis-
playing what they know, doing it together. If you played on a guy’s
bandstand at a real jam session, your instrument had to be tuned
and you played what you knew. It wasn’t no guesswork. So one night,
we were all sitting around like musicians do, people like Lockwood,
Odie Payne, Fred Below, myself, and just a bunch of guys shooting
the breeze. Everything that Elmore played, if he didn’t play in the key
of E, when he wasn’t using a slide he used a capo. We used to call it a
clamp. He got up to make a telephone call, and when he came back,
Lockwood had stole his capo and hid it from him. Elmore said, “Man,
I got the perfect song but I’ve got to have my clamp. Damn, where is
it?” All the other guys hollered, “I don’t know! I haven’t seen it!” He
said, “Well, whoever it was that took my clamp was having sex with
his mama.” That’s when Lockwood spoke and said, “Hey, you didn’t
ask me about your damn clamp. But I’ll tell you this much: I’m the
one that got it and I’m not gonna give it back to you. And you must
have had sex with your mama, but I didn’t have none with mine. But
I’ll do one more thing for you that nobody else has done. I gave you
[ 128 ]
a woman the other day, and now I’m gonna show you how to play
without that damn clamp. Then, when you face the world, you’ll know
how to play something.” And after Lockwood showed Elmore the
technique of how to play without a capo, he never used one again.
I never will forget one other time, at the Chess Records studio,
Robert Lockwood, Jr., and Luther Tucker was getting ready to do a
Little Walter session. The song was “Temperature.” It goes, “My baby
gives me a high temperature.” People who know Lockwood know that
he was a creator and innovator of a lot of those sessions. He said to
Luther, “Man, this might be something here.” But Luther said, “Yeah,
man, but instead of me playing that, how about faking it?” So Lock-
wood looked at him hard and said, “Hey, man, we’re not faking noth-
ing here! Today we’re playing!” So Luther finally got into his head how
Robert wanted the music to go, and he played it. That was one of
Walter’s biggest sellers.
When I first started with Anson, the guys in the band were real
musical-orientated. They would always see what songs we could do,
and they would always be inquisitive about different ways we could
do them, to make them better for our performances. The new guys in
Anson’s band are a little different now than in the old days, but they’re
real cool guys. One of the funniest things that happened, it was one of
Anson’s songs that we used to do a lot. I didn’t tell him, but there was a
lady sitting there in the audience who said, “I’ll give you a nice tip for
this song.” I tried to sense him into what was happening. It was a simple
song, and the lady, after she told me this, she gave me a twenty-dollar
bill. But Anson hollered to her, “Sorry, we don’t do that song anymore.”
So after he had told her that, well, there wasn’t nothing else I could
say but ask her, “Would there be anything else you’d like to hear?” She
said, “You’re sounding good, just play anything.” I asked her name,
and I called it out and then played the next song. And that made that
twenty-dollar bill rightfully mine!
[ 129 ]
We were riding one day through Chicago, going out to Spellman.

That’s out by one of the universities there. Doug Swancey was driving
the bus. Now he drums with Kenny Traylor’s band out of Fort Worth.
We was riding through the city up to where they had pulled down the
ramp to the Dan Ryan Expressway. There was untied steel and every-
thing sticking out, and I said to Doug, “What you have to do is take
the outer lane of the Dan Ryan. You don’t want to go up onto where
the guys are working.” He said, “I know, but I can’t get over.” I said,
“Just take the outer lanes where the other cars are going and it will
get you right to where you need to be.” He said, “I can’t do that,” so I
said, “Why in the hell can’t you do it?” He said, “Well, for one thing, I
can see where I’m going.” I said, “I got two things against you. I used
to live here, and I know my way around Chicago pretty good. You can
see and I can’t, but I sure know what the hell I’m doing and what way
to go.” And it broke his heart when he ended up having to go the same
way I told him to go.
Another time we were coming out of Cleveland heading into
Detroit. We were going to a club called Sully’s where we were going to
be playing. We were on the expressway north of Toledo on Highway
75, so there was a lot of traffic. But before all this happened, we had
stopped to have some work done on the bus. I had eased on over to
the mechanic and he said, “I can’t understand why this motor’s not
running free, but I’ll fix what they say.” I said, “What you need to do
is to take that governor all the way off so the bus will run freely.” He
said, “I hadn’t thought about that. I’ll just take it off, and he won’t
know it until he tries to drive slow when he’s not supposed to.” I
was sorry afterwards that I told the guy to take it off, because we was
going through Toledo getting ready to hit the outer lanes of 75 going
up north to Detroit. We was about fifty miles out and the traffic was
pretty heavy. We was on a bridge and Doug swung around and said,
“Boy, we’re moving now!” and I said, “Yeah, you’re moving pretty
[ 130 ]
good.” Then he swerved back in, and just as he went to get back over
in his lane, this car was coming pretty fast, and by the bus being as
long as it was, it hit this guy’s car and almost turned it over. So Doug
got right in the middle of the bridge and stopped, but the traffic
couldn’t get by him. He just froze. I said, “You hit that man’s car! You
better get your long-haired ass out and go back and see about that
man, see is anybody hurt.” He kept saying, “I ain’t going, I ain’t going,
I ain’t going.” So Anson came up to the front and got out and went
back there. I said, “If I was that man and I wasn’t hurt, I’d get me a
sledgehammer and come up here and beat you until you really turned
green because you messed up his car.” He just kept saying, “I ain’t
going, I ain’t going,” just like that. So finally we went on and made the
gig. It wasn’t too long before he left the group and started working with
somebody else, but everybody, they’re all still friends. So that was a
pair of Doug Swancey extravaganzas.
Mike Judge was another guy that was in the band. [Author’s note:
Mike Judge is the creator of the TV shows Beavis and Butthead and King
of the Hill, as well as the movie Office Space. His animated character
Beavis is drawn with a blond pompadour that resembles Anson’s.] He
was a bass player, and I thought there was something up with his talent
as far as him being in the band. He was a beautiful musician, a great
bass player, but he was always coming up with these different sounds.
Like somebody would say something to him, and he’d make a sound
like a siren, like the cops was after him, or he’d remember what some-
body had told him and he would be imitating them. That’s how his
career took off, and he’s been going ever since. I think a lot of guys envy
him, but if you got talent and can display it in a way where it could be
beneficial to you, hey, you should glory in your spunk, you know.
The funniest thing that ever happened to me anywhere, whether it
was on the road or not, was before I was declared as a diabetic. I used to
not only make whiskey, I drank a lot of it, too. Back when I was working
[ 131 ]
with Elmore in Jackson in a club called the S&S, Camel cigarettes

were only thirty-five cents a pack. That’s all I’ve ever smoked. I was
going to the telephone, and I had it in mind to get me a pack of ciga-
rettes and then use a dime to get the operator to call my mother. So
what I did, I went over to the telephone and I put thirty-five cents in
it. Then I grabbed the telephone’s little knob and was pulling and jerk-
ing on it. The club owner, John Simpson, came over and said, “Hey,
man, what in the hell are you doing?” I said, “I’m trying to get some
cigarettes out of this S.O.B.” He said, “Man, you can’t get no cigarettes
out of this thing. Wait a minute.” He hit the change release thing and
my money came back, and a little more. He said, “I’m going to split
this with you since we got lucky. But I’m going to take thirty-five cents
and go over and get you a pack of cigarettes.” That was about as drunk
as I’ve ever been.
Another time, I had been drinking all day. Then I went to work at
night at that same club, the S&S. We were getting ready to hit the road
after that, to go up to Cleveland to play a club there called Gleason’s
Bar, at Fifty-fifth and Euclid. The guy had a hotel and a bar where we
played. I had been drinking all that day, then I was going to go home
where I was living at 127 West Davis Street, and we would leave out at
eight o’clock the next morning. All the guys, by having to hurry home
to get their gear and stuff together and maybe take a nap or two, they
all went off and left me. I could have got a cab to go home, but I was
still hanging around in the bar. I had drank me a whole lot of liquor
that night, but I never did get too wasted when it come to doing my
show earlier in the evening. But by this time, I was off drinking with
different guys.
There was this guy standing at the bar who I did not recognize as
being a deputy sheriff. John Simpson and his uncle, Percy Simpson,
was standing there talking to the guy. I said, “Well, it’s about time for
me to get on in.” I was just sober enough to know that. The guy said,
[ 132 ]
“Well, you’ve about had a night,” and I said, “Yeah, I’ve about had one
but I got to head on and hit the road.” He said, “If you’re not going
to get a cab or have nobody take you, I’ll drop you off.” I said, “Hey,
man, that’s all right, let me know when you get ready.” He said, “I’m
ready when you get ready.” I said, “I’m gonna have one more.” I had
drunk right then about a half of a half-pint of whiskey, sitting there
at the bar. I never did look up to see who the guy was. We goes out, he
caught me by the arm, and we walks out and I gets in the front seat
with him and he goes around to the driver’s side. I remember this, oh,
I remember this as if it happened just a few minutes ago. I thought
something was strange that we got downtown mighty fast, so just as
he turned onto Davis Street, I went to ask him what kind of work did
he do. About that time I heard his radio go off and say, “All available
cars, there’s been a gasoline truck in a wreck out on Highway 80 West.”
I raised up and I said, “Holy shit!” and he looked at me and laughed
and said, “What’s the matter? I thought you knew who I was!” I was
riding with the man who could have took me anywhere but home. We
were almost right in front of my house when the radio had come on.
I hopped out, and I was sober and steady as a judge! And ever since
then, whenever he would see me, it didn’t matter if it was in broad
daylight, he would ask me, “Did you ever get sober? Did you ever get
straight?” and we’d just laugh. That was in 1959, and he was a white
cop. But he was a blues lover and he had been coming by that club to
pick up a shakedown, one of those kinds of deals.
I did have one kind of scary thing to happen to me. In Cincinnati,
Ohio, we were doing a festival there. This woman climbed up on stage
and started hitting me with her handbag. She didn’t say nothing before,
she just walked up and whaled the devil out of me. The woman said I
had jilted her out of a house and left her with a retarded child. I said,
“Oh, no, not me!” I was just took by surprise. The cops, they were sup-
posed to have security there onstage. Now why did they let something
[ 133 ]
like that happen? And I took it that she was on drugs, you know.
Everybody had a big laugh about it, but I said, “I’m going to tell you
all something. If I had known that was going to happen, they would
probably be picking up pieces of her out in the audience.” And then
I got pissed off at the cops because they didn’t want to hear nothing
that I said about it. I could have went over their heads and got restitu-
tion in another way, but I didn’t. I don’t care who’s in the audience
or who I’m playing with, I’ve always been careful since then. I don’t
care where I am, I always have a protective thing with me when-
ever I’m onstage. Sad but true. I usually carry a knife or a gun or
something. And where I’d be a dummy, I’d say, see here, I got this,
I got that. If you’re gonna do something, or if you got something to do
something with, if the other person has got it in mind to do harm to
you, you’re not supposed to let him know that you’re ready for him.
Anson F u nd e r burgh:
Back somewhere in the eighties, we’d go down to Austin and do these
benefits for Clifford Antone, whose club was always in dire straits. This was
back when the place was on Guadalupe Street in South Austin. They had
all the usual Austin people there, plus the Kentucky Headhunters. It was
just me and Sam who went, and we sat in with the house band. I think it
was George Raines on drums and Kim Wilson on harp and singing; that’s
all I can remember. I think there’s still a tape of it somewhere. Now, some
of these nights at Antone’s could go on forever. They’d shut the doors and
play ’til six in the morning if they wanted to. The Kentucky Headhunters
were the headliners that night, and they closed the regular show. Later on,
after the audience and most of the employees were gone, they started in
jamming, and Sam wanted to get up with them. When there’s music to be
played, he’s always ready to be a part of it. He might say, “Oh, no, I don’t
want to,” and kind of play it down for a minute, but if nobody asks him,
he’ll be the first one to start trying to sneak up onto the stage.
[ 134 ]
Anyway, he was up there playing, with Clifford Antone on bass,

Derek O’Brien on guitar, Kim was on harp, and Sam was singing. There
was a guy who played guitar for the Kentucky Headhunters who at this
time was playing piano. I think his name is Richard Young. This guy had
real long hair, was kind of heavyset and wore glasses. Sam kind of half-
way introduced the people that were up there, and when he got to the guy
who was playing piano, he said, “You know, I’m not sure what the young
lady’s name is who’s playing piano . . . ,” and everybody just died laugh-
ing. Derek went up to him and told him it was a guy who was playing
piano, and Sam just said, “Oops! Slippers! Sorry about that!” and just
went on like nothing had happened.
Another time we were playing at the Grand Emporium before I was
married to my wife, Renée, even before she started traveling with us as a
singer. She was at the show selling CDs for us. She and Sam were really
good friends. He’d buy her little presents, and she’d take him to go buy
suits, that kind of thing. They had gone out to do something earlier that
day, so he wanted to get her up on the stage that night and introduce
her. He said, “Now, I’d like to get one of the most angelic specimens of
femininigy up here . . . ,” and before he could say Renée’s name, some
other woman who he had been talking to at the bar ran up onto the
stage and hugged him and kissed his cheek. Sam couldn’t figure out what
to do. Here he had this other girl up here whose name he didn’t know.
He looked over at me, and I didn’t know who she was. He finally bent
down and said, “What’s your name, honey?” You could hear him over
the microphone when he was asking her what her name was. When she
finally got down, he looked over at me and said, and you could still hear
him through the microphone, “What the hell was she running up here
for? I was trying to introduce Renée!” The whole place could hear him!
Once Renée started traveling with us, we had this dog that would
come along. Her name was Muddy. We were playing this outdoor show
down by the river outside of Kansas City. It was on a flatbed truck, and
[ 135 ]
Mud was up there with us. She was the greatest dog in the world, went
everywhere with us. Even Sam loved that dog. He was always accusing
us of not feeding her, and he would always be giving her some of his food,
fried chicken or whatever he had. He’d always give her a little bite. So
we were playing that show, and nobody had a hold of Muddy. She was
down at the truck when Sam started singing, “I’d rather drink muddy
water . . .” I guess Muddy must have thought he was calling her. She came
down out of that truck, ran up onto the stage and started playing around,
chasing Sam’s feet. Sam was startled, jumped back and started doing this
little dance while Muddy was running around his ankles. It looked like
they were dancing and the audience just went crazy, thinking this was all
part of the act.
[ 136 ]
C HAP TE R 14
SAM’S BEST FRIEND,

ANSON FUNDERBURGH
Anson Funderburgh, of Plano, Texas, has been a stalwart of Texas blues

guitar for almost thirty years. At the age of fifteen he started playing at
local parties and in clubs like the notorious Cellar in Dallas with his
first band, Sound Cloud. A year after he graduated from high school in
1973, Anson headed for the blues mecca of Austin to join a newly formed
house band called Blue Norther. But the group never jelled, so Anson did
a few gigs with Doyle Bramhall and Marc Benno and for a while was
a member of the Nightcrawlers. That band had earlier been a spring-
board for Anson’s hometown friend, Stevie Ray Vaughan. After a year
Anson headed back home to Dallas. He and the late Brent MacMillan
put together a short-lived band called Delta Road. Anson’s next band,
Bees Knees, was a so-called “tropical rock” band. After two albums in
three years, Anson left Bees Knees and returned to his blues roots, reunit-
ing with Doyle Bramhall for a stint in Doyle’s Dallas version of the
Nightcrawlers. Anson and Doyle opened for national acts Albert King
and Lightnin’ Hopkins at the old Granada Theater in Dallas. Five years
after leaving high school, Anson struck out alone and the first version of
the Rockets was born.
[ 137 ]
S A M’ S B ES T F R IEN D , A N S ON F U N D E R BU R G H
I started the Rockets in 1978. Darrell Nulisch was the first singer in the
band. We used to work around the Dallas area, then we started branch-
ing off. We played in Louisiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Oklahoma,
kind of spiraling out. In 1982 we played a little place called the George
Street Grocery in Jackson, Mississippi. This was right about when our
first record came out, “Talk to You by Hand.” A guy came in and asked
me if I wanted to meet Sam Myers. I said, “Yeah, I’d love to meet Sam
Myers.” At that time, Darrell and I were doing “My Love Is Here to Stay,”
which is a song of Sam’s that he released in 1957. So he brought Sam up
and introduced him to us. Sam sat in, and it was just great. We thought
it was the coolest thing. We played at that place quite a bit. It was Freddie
Walden, Doug Rynack, and Jackie Newhouse when we first started play-
ing there and later Eddie Stout, and Darrell and me. Every time we’d go
over there, we’d all go get Sam and just hang out.
There used to be a place called the White House where we liked to go
eat lunch or dinner. It seemed like all of Sam’s friends and all of his rela-
tionships kind of originated around a dinner table. We all became such
good friends, every time we’d visit Jackson we’d pick up Sam and go out
to eat, go to the record store, go look for antique clothes, go to the pawn-
shops, just do whatever, goofing off. Back in those days, we’d play for
three or four days. We’d usually play George Street on Thursday, Friday,
and Saturday and then their booking agent, Malcolm White, would have
an outdoor event or something for us on Sunday, some sort of little after-
noon deal. So we were there at least once every three months, and we just
all really became great friends with Sam. I had a record deal with Black
Top, so instead of making another Rockets record, I got into Hammond
Scott’s ear about him coming out to see Sam again and maybe doing a
record with him. Hammond drove up to Jackson from New Orleans and
hung out with us and visited with Sam again. Hammond knew of Sam
from before, so we talked it over and decided to do it. In ’84 Sam and I
made that record, “My Love Is Here to Stay.” Sam wasn’t in the band at
[ 138 ]
S A M’ S B ES T F R IEN D , A N S ON F U N D ER B U R G H
that time. It was just a little side project to do something different and
to get his name back out there again. I think it’s probably one of our best
records, I really do. It’s a good, strong record. In ’84, Sam would have
been almost fifty years old, and he just sounded great on it, the whole
band did.
So we just kind of tooled along. We’d fly Sam out and include him in
some of our performances and tours. He played the San Francisco Blues
Festival and the Battle of the Harmonicas out there with us. We played
in New Orleans, just a little added deal to the show, and to promote the
record for Hammond. And then in ’86, when Darrell left the band, hell, I
just called Sam up and asked him if he wanted to start to work with us,
to move to Dallas and start playing. It just seemed like the thing to do. He
wasn’t doing much at the time, and we could use the record that we made
to promote ourselves as a calling card and get some work. He said yeah,
so I borrowed Fingers Taylor’s van and one of his old Bassman amps and
one of his JT30C harmonica microphones. We borrowed all that stuff
from Fingers and moved Sam to Dallas, and that’s how we started with
Anson and the Rockets featuring Sam Myers. That was in April 1986. He
and I rehearsed for about a month, and we started to work in May.
Within six months I took Fingers’s van back and bought our own van
and fixed it up. Sam and I hit the road really hard. Hell, we worked 260
to 280 days a year for the first five or six years. I booked the band up until
about the first part of 1990, when we hired the David Hickey agency. They
really helped us to get out there even further. It’s been a neat trip. You
kind of look up and you think, wow, it’s been almost twenty years that’s
slipped by.
One of my favorite Sammy stories is from when we were recording
“My Love Is Here to Stay.” I didn’t know much about Sam personally at
that time. I mean, I did and I didn’t, because we had hung out together
some, but you really don’t know someone until you’re with them all the
time. The first night after he joined us we took him out to eat. He ordered
[ 139 ]
a large combination pizza and a large plate of spaghetti. I thought to

myself when he ordered all that food, man, he’ll never be able to eat all
that. I’ll be dadgummed, he made a liar out of me. When we left, there
wasn’t a noodle left of the spaghetti or a crumb left of the pizza. It just
really knocked me out.
After we made that record, we used to fly Sam out to gigs when we’d
stay gone for two or three weeks. He’d play the festival gigs that could afford
to pay for something like that. On one of our first trips out to California,
we picked Sam up in L.A. We were going to do several shows in L.A., work
our way up the coast, and end up the weekend playing the San Francisco
Blues Festival. So we picked him up and got all his stuff from the luggage
area and loaded it into the van. Sam got in and he said, “My old feet hurt.
Look in that little old brown briefcase there and hand me my easy-
steppers.” Everybody thought, OK, what’s that, a comfortable pair of shoes?
It was actually a harmonica case and when we opened it up, here on top
of all these harmonicas was this stinking, filthy pair of house shoes that he
had sitting on those damn harmonicas that he’d been putting in his mouth
and blowing on. All of us just got the biggest kick out of that. We said, “This
here’s a serious road man!”
I think the thing that’s held us together for so long is that Sam and
I have a pretty good respect for one another, and I think we really do
love one another. Our friendship and our love for the music has been the
vehicle for Sam to play the music he really loves, to play blues and get
out there and gain fans. Even though sometimes it hasn’t been absolutely
perfect, like maybe the band didn’t jell exactly like we wanted it to with
certain members or whatever, but all in all it’s been about a love for the
music and our friendship. Even when we’re not on the best of terms, we’ll
call each other all the time to see what’s going on. Personally, I really love
him; he’s just like part of my family. I’ve known Sam since 1982, so I’ve
known him for twenty-four years now and he and I have actually worked
together for almost twenty years.
[ 140 ]
When we first started playing as Anson Funderburgh and the Rockets

featuring Sam Myers, there weren’t a whole lot of guys doing what we
were doing with someone who was as authentic as Sam and someone that
was like myself. I consider myself a traditionalist, even though some peo-
ple might say I was more contemporary because I’m a younger white guy
that’s been playing this kind of music. Sam and I have really been fortu-
nate; when we came out and first started doing the thing, man, the press,
they loved us. There’s no telling how big a stack of stories and articles I
have about this band. It’s pretty amazing how much people just embraced
us. Music is a funny thing; there are so many talented people out there
that never make it, who you never hear of. It’s hard to know what really
makes things work. Even though our success on a bigger picture is pretty
small, for the blues picture our success has been very large. The last twenty
years I can say haven’t always been easy, but it’s been pretty damn good,
man, and it’s been fun. The first ten years of it were real fun. Over time,
people’s priorities change, but Sam and I have had a pretty damn good
run of it. We’ve been a whole lot luckier than a lot of people.
Sam as an artist is very unique, because to me he wasn’t a guy that
sounded like Little Walter or that really big, heavy, heavy harmonica of
Big Walter. He has his own little twist to things, kind of a country taste
or flavor to it. He plays it with such different dynamics. I’m not sure I
know exactly how to explain what he does or how he does it, but since
he’s been playing with this band he’s kind of taken that country sound
and electrified it. On a lot of his earlier recordings he’d just play straight
harmonica into a bubble mic. In the later years with us he’d use a micro-
phone, and it’s a little bit bigger of a sound, but it’s still not exactly the
same kind of bigness as Little Walter. His sound is different; he’s got his
own phrasing with the harmonica. I find him very unique in that he’s
found a cross between the country sound and more of an electric sound.
Kind of like Muddy did, when he was playing with a bottleneck by him-
self or with a really small band, and then there’s the later Muddy with
[ 141 ]
the electric guitar and a full-blown band. It’s kind of the same kind of
sound, but electrified; it sounds different. Sam has done the same kind of
thing with his style. He’s still playing the same way as his early stuff, but
he’s electrified it, and it’s very unique to me. I think he’s his own guy.
In writing songs with Sam, he and I seem to have a process that we
go through to blend our ideas together. Maybe I’ll have some sort of lick
that I’m playing. Or it might be some progression that I’ve been work-
ing on, and I’ll start playing it for him. Maybe I’ll have some ideas for
the theme of the song or some lyrics to try out. I might say that I want
a song that’s in the key of E, with kind of a Lightnin’ Hopkins or Jimmy
Rogers kind of style. Then I’d start playing things and maybe get an idea
about having been on the road for a while and call out some of the cities
that we’ve been to, or maybe the roads and highways we’ve been on. Just
crazy stuff like that, and we’ll talk about it some. Then Sam might come
in with a set of lyrics that he’s been working on. I’ll always set up a little
boom box recorder, and I’ll start playing some of the licks and figures
behind it. I’ll whisper the words to Sam and he’ll sing them, or maybe it’s
something that he’s worked on and he’ll sing it and I’ll try to play some
part for it. We just kind of go from there. Sometimes it doesn’t make any
sense, so once we’ve recorded it on the boom box and we listen back to
it, maybe we’ll say the first verse we sang might work better as the third
verse, or vice versa. So we do things like that, swap it around some and
get some rough ideas of where we want the song to go. Maybe John Street
will come over and play piano while we’re going through this process. I’ve
got a small recording studio in my house, so sometimes we’ll just build
the song there, with a keyboard for John and my guitar and Sam. We can
put drums down from the piano, and while it’s not perfect, it gives us
a pretty good idea of where we want to go when we get in the studio. When
you’re spending a few hundred dollars an hour for studio time, you really
want to have things a little bit more together than just going in and wing-
ing it. That can be very expensive these days. But we’ve actually had
[ 142 ]
a lot of fun writing songs for our records. We try to make at least half of it
original and half of it traditional-sounding songs that we like to play.
I think you can measure success as a musician in several different
ways. There’s the guy can play a little bit of everything. I respect people
who can play anything or sing anything; they just have the ability to play
music. But it moves me more, and this is just a personal thing, to see
someone who has their own style, like B.B. King. I can hear him play
three notes and I know it’s B.B. King. I can hear Sam play three notes on
the harmonica or sing a little, and I know it’s him. He has a unique style
that’s all his own. As musicians, that’s what we all strive for, to have some
unique quality about us that makes us different and sets us apart from
everyone else.
[ 143 ]
DISCOGRAPHY
LA BE L CATA LOG N O. TI TLE R EL EA S ED
45 R P M SI N G L E S
Ace 536 My Love Is Here to Stay 1957

Sleeping in the Ground
White Label 1955 Rhythm with Me 1957

(Dutch label, probably same personnel on Ace sessions)
Fury 1035 You Don’t Have to Go 1960

Sad, Sad Lonesome Day
Ace 3027 You’re So Fine 1979

The Things I Used to Do,
Sam Myers, hca
Mid South NR 15681 Back in My Baby’s Arms 1984

(B side); billed as Sam
“Blues Man” Myles [sic]
R EC O R D AL B UM S
WITH VA RI O US MUSI C I A N S :
TJ 1030 Down Home in Mississippi 1979
TJ 1040 Mississippi Delta Blues 1980
[ 145 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
TJ 1002 Mississippi Delta Blues Band: 1981

In Europe
TJ 1050 Mississippi Delta Blues Band 1981
TJ 1054 Mississippi Delta Blues Band, 1986

Chromatic Style
TJ 1056 San Francisco Blues Band 1986
TJ 1060 Mississippi Delta Blues Band: 1986

Greatest Hits
W I TH A NSO N FUND E R B U R G H A N D T H E R OC K E T S :
Black Top 1032 My Love Is Here to Stay 1986
Black Top 1038 Sins 1987
Black Top 1049 Rack ’Em Up 1989
Black Top 1068 Tell Me What I Want to Hear 1991
Black Top 1077 Through the Years: 1992

A Retrospective
Black Top 1111 Live at the Grand Emporium 1995
Black Top 1140 That’s What They Want 1997
Rounder 619573 Change in My Pocket 1999
Rounder 619619 Which Way Is Texas? 2003
A S SA M MYE RS:
Electro-Fi 3383 Coming from the Old School 2004
[ 146 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
A PP E A RS W I TH THE FOL L OW I N G A RT I S T S :
Black Top 1046 Snooks Eaglin, Out of Nowhere 1988

“Young Girl,” Sam Myers, hca
Black Top 1050 Joe “Guitar” Hughes, 1989

“If You Want to See These Blues,”
Sam Myers, hca
Cannonball 29108 Hash Brown, Hash Brown’s Texas 1999

Blues Revue
“My Daily Wish,” “Dog in a Man
(Ways of a Man),” Sam Myers, vcl;
“Got You Where You Want Me,” “Sad
and Lonesome,” Sam Myers, vcl/hca;
“Ain’t Gonna Let You In,” vcl w/
Zuzu Bollin
Socan 401 Robin Banks, Honestly 2001

“Don’t You Love Me Like That,”
“I Need a Lovin’ Man,” “None A’
Nothin’, ” “My Kinda Lover,”
“Thunder and Lightnin’, ” Sam
Myers, hca
Topcat 4022 Jim Suhler, Dirt Road 2002

“Shake Hands with the Blues,”
Sam Myers, hca
P-Vine 3775 Snooks Eaglin, Out of Nowhere 2003

Sam Myers, hca
Blue Bella 1003 Nick Moss, Count Your Blessings 2003

“Hey Hey,” “She Brought Life Back
to the Dead,” Sam Myers, vcl/hca
A PP E A RS O N THE FO L L OW I N G E L M OR E J A M E S R E R E L E A S E S :
Relic 7040 Dust My Broom: The Best of 1992

Elmore James, Vol. 2
[ 147 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
Rhino 71190 The Sky Is Crying: 1993

The History of Elmore James
Charly BM28 Standing at the Crossroads 1993
Collectables 8829 The Complete Fire and 1995

Enjoy Sessions
P-Vine 112522 Best Blues Masters, Vol. 2 1998
Rhino 79803 Blues Masters: 2000

The Very Best of Elmore James
Buddha 99781 Shake Your Money Maker: 2000

The Best of the Fire Sessions
P-Vine 2889/9 The Sky Is Crying: 2003

The Legendary Fire/Enjoy Sessions
A P P E A RS O N THE F OL L OW I N G C OM PI L AT I ON S :
Sundown CG 709-01 Blow by Blow: An Anthology 1979

Reissue of Harmonica Blues
“My Love Is Here to Stay”/
“Sleeping in the Ground”
Vivid Sound VS-1011 The Kings Sing the Blues: 1979

Reissue Vol. 2
“My Love Is Here to Stay”/
“Sleeping in the Ground”
P-Vine 6101/6102 N.Y on Fire: 1986

Reissue Bobby’s Harlem Rock, Vol. 2
“Poor Little Angel Child,”
“Little Girl” (with Elmore
James), “You Don’t Have To Go,”
“Sad, Sad Lonesome Day”
Black Top 1044 Black Top Blues-A-Rama 1988

Reissue “Pawnbroker,” That’s Alright,”
[ 148 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
“Suggestion Blues,” “Changing

Neighborhoods” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Charly 1208 New York Blues, Vol. 2 1989

Reissue “Poor Little Angel Child,”
“Little Girl” (with Elmore
James)
Savage Kick 508 Savage Kick Vol. 8: 1990

Reissue Black Rock ’n’ Roll
“You Don’t Have to Go”
Black Top 2 Black Top Blues-A-Rama— 1990

Reissue A Budget Sampler
“20 Miles” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
K-Tel 846 Blues: The New Breed 1991

Reissue “Chill Out” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Black Top 1066 Blues Cocktail Party 1991

Reissue “Bombastic,” “Look What
You’re Doing to Me,” “Make
a Little Love” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Black Top 1073 Black Top Blues-A-Rama, 1992

Reissue Vol. 6: Live at Tipitina’s
“20 Miles,” “Hold That Train,
Conductor,” “Look on Yonder
Wall,” “One Room Country
Shack,” “Feel So Bad,”
“Can’t Stop Lovin’ My Baby”
(with Anson Funderburgh)
Black Top 1078 Soul Survey: A Blues Sampler 1992

Reissue “Tell Me What I Want to Hear”
[ 149 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
Black Top 1079 Blues Harmonica Spotlight 1992

Reissue “My Love Is Here to Stay,”
“Since We’ve Been Together”
Black Top 1083 Blues Guitar Spotlight 1992

Reissue “Dog in a Man (Ways of a Man)”
Rhino 71123 Blues Masters, Vol. 3: 1992

Reissue Texas Blues
“Changing Neighborhoods”
Ace 2028 Genuine Mississippi Blues 1993

Reissue “Sad and Lonesome,” “You’re
So Fine,” “Money Is My
Downfall,” “Gold Tail Bird”
Capricorn 42009-2 The Fire/Fury Records Story 1993

Reissue “You Don’t Have to Go”
Rollin’ & RT 2607 Heavy Harp 1994

Tumblin’ “My Daily Wish,”
Reissue “Sam’s Jam”
Charly 3 Modern Blues Anthology: 1995

Reissue Ain’t Times Hard
Rhino 72017 Blues Masters, Vols. 1–5 1995

Reissue “Changing Neighborhoods”
Black Top 1122 Blues, Mistletoe & 1995

Santa’s Little Helper
“Sam’s Christmas Blues,”
“Lonesome Christmas,”
“Young Girls Drive Me Wild
(at Christmas)”
[ 150 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
Black Top 1124 Black Top Blues Vocal Dynamite! 1995

Reissue “Tomorrow Will Find Me the
Same Way” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Celebration 2519 A Celebration of Blues: 1996

of Blues Great Guitarists, Vol. 3
Reissue “Down At J. J’s” (with Anson
Funderburgh)

of Blues Great Slide Guitar
Reissue “Make a Little Love Tonight”

of Blues Great Swing Blues
Reissue “Mean Streak” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Easydisc 7038 Texas Blues Party 1997

Reissue “20 Miles” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Easydisc 7048 Blues Harp Power 1997

Reissue “Rack ’Em Up” (with Anson
Funderburgh)
Platinum/A&M 161286 Essential Texas Blues 1997

Reissue “Changing Neighborhoods”
Official 52544 Papa Lightfoot and Sammy 1997

Reissue Myers: Blues Harmonica
Wizards “Sleeping in the
Ground,” “My Love Is Here
to Stay,” “You Don’t Have
to Go,” “Sad, Sad Lonesome
Day,” “Look on Yonder
[ 151 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
Wall” (with Elmore James),

“Poor Little Angel Child”
(with Elmore James)
WestSide 570 Tuff Enough, Vol.3: 1998

Reissue The Ace Blues Masters
“Sleeping in the Ground,”
“My Love Is Here to Stay”
WestSide 812 Mark Lamarr’s Ace Is Wild 1998

Reissue “My Love Is Here to Stay”
(alt. take)
Platinum/A&M 161407 Jingle Blues 1998

Reissue “Sam’s Christmas Blues”
Charly 220 Blues Harp Bosses 1998

Reissue “You Don’t Have to Go”
Easydisc 367072 Blues Guitar Masters 1998

Reissue “Mean Streak” (with
Anson Funderburgh)
Easydisc 367073 Blues Harp Hotshots 1998

Reissue “Bombastic” (with
Snooks Eaglin)
Ace 710 Harp Blues—The Greats! 1998

Reissue “Sleeping in the Ground”
WestSide 579 Genuine Mississippi 1999

Reissue Blues . . . Plus
“Gold Tail Bird” (take one),
“Money Is My Downfall,”
“You’re So Fine,”
“Sad and Lonesome,”
“Take Me Where You Go,”
“Gold Tail Bird” (take two)
Richmond 3008 We Got the Blues for You 2000

Reissue “Sleeping in the Ground”
[ 152 ]
D IS COG R A PH Y
Varese 61131 Harp and Soul 2001

Reissue “What’s Wrong, What’s Wrong”
Music Blitz 30011 Handy Award Nominees, Vol. 1 2001

Reissue “Change in My Pocket”
Past Perfect 325 Rhythm & Blues Goes 2002

Reissue Rock & Roll, Vol. 2
WestSide 240 Shuckin’ Stuff—Rare Blues 2002

Reissue from Ace Records
“Got My Nose Open,”
“19 Years Old” (Johnny
Littlejohn with Sammy
Myers, hca), “My Love Is
Here to Stay” (alt.), “Sleeping
in the Ground” (alt.),
“My Love Is Here to Stay”
(demo), “Sleeping in the
Ground” (demo)
Rounder 612171 Box of the Blues 2003

Reissue “Change in My Pocket”
Fuel 2000 61273 Blues, Booze, Harps and Guitar 2003

Reissue “What’s Wrong, What’s Wrong”
[ 153 ]
SONG CATALOG
Sam’s most famous song, “Sleeping in the Ground,” was recorded in December 1956 at
Trumpet Studios in Jackson, Mississippi, on Johnny Vincent’s Ace label. Some of the
artists who have covered this song:
Robert Cray, Who’s Been Talkin’ (Tomato 7041, 1980)

Eric Clapton w/Blind Faith, Crossroads (Polydor 835261, 1988)
Omar and the Howlers, Blues Bag (Bullseye CD-BB-9519, 1992)
Steve Winwood, The Finer Things (Polygram 516860, 1995)
Duster Bennett, I Choose to Sing the Blues (Indigo 2091, 1998)
Duster Bennett, Bright Lights, Big City (Castle 81292, 2003)
Honeyboy Hickling, Straight from the Harp (Music Maker 943, 2000)
Blind Faith, Blind Faith 2000 Deluxe Edition (Polydor 549529, 2001)
Greg “Fingers” Taylor, Hi Fi Baby (Warehouse Creek 114, 2003)
Songs written or co-written by Sam Myers:
After Hours When the Joint Is Closed – Myers

The Amateur (She’s Gone) – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Bombastic – Myers, A. Funderburgh, Ford Eaglin
Burning Fire – Myers
Change in My Pocket – Myers, Renée Funderburgh
Changing Neighborhoods – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Chill Out – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Coming from the Old School – Myers
Country Boy – Myers
Dew Is Falling – Myers
Don’t Quit the One You Love for Me – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Gold Tail Bird – Myers
[ 155 ]
S ON G CATA LOG
Hep Cats in Big Town – Myers

Highway Man – Myers, A. Funderburgh, R. Funderburgh, Pat Whitefield
I Done Quit Getting Sloppy Drunk – Myers
I Got a Thing for the Voodoo Woman – Myers
I Got the Blues – Myers
I’m Innocent – Myers, A. Funderburgh, Danny Cochran, Jim Milan
I’ve Been Dogged by Women – Myers, A. Funderburgh
I Want a Wife – Myers, A. Funderburgh, Hammond Scott
I’m Tired of Your Jive – Myers
Lemonade – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Let You Slowly Bring Me Down – Myers
Missing Person – Myers, A. Funderburgh, Cochran, Milan
Money Is My Downfall – Myers
My Heart Cries Out for You – Myers
My Love Is Here to Stay – Myers
Packing Up My Blues – Myers
Poor Little Angel Child – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Rack ’Em Up – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Sad, Sad Lonesome Day – Myers
Sam’s Christmas Blues – Myers
Shedding Tears of Laughter – Myers
Since We’ve Been Together – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Sleeping in the Ground – Myers
Suggestion Blues – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Tell Me What I Want to Hear – Myers, A. Funderburgh, Matt McCabe, Milan, Scott,
Harvey Shield
Things Have Changed – Myers
Tomorrow Will Find Me the Same Way – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Trying to Make You Mine – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Turning My Life Around – Myers, A. Funderburgh
20 Miles – Myers, A. Funderburgh
Waiting on You, Mamma – Myers
What’s Wrong, What’s Wrong – Myers
Willie Jo – Myers, A. Funderburgh, R. Funderburgh
You Don’t Know What Love Is All About – Myers
Young Girls Drive Me Wild – Myers, A. Funderburgh
[ 156 ]
SAM MYERS, ELMORE JAMES,
AND BOBBY ROBINSON SESSIONS
E LM O R E J AM E S SE SSIONS:
Chief/Vee-Jay Records, Chicago 1957. Elmore James (guitar), Wayne Bennett (second
guitar), J. T. Brown (tenor sax), Jimmy Lee Brown (bass), Johnny Jones (piano), Earl
Hooker (second guitar), Sam Myers (drums).
1. The Twelve-Year-Old Boy
2. Coming Home
3. It Hurts Me Too
4. Knocking on Your Door
5. Elmore’s Contribution to Jazz
Fire Records, Chicago (Chess Studios), 1959. Elmore James (guitar), J. T. Brown (tenor
sax), Homesick James (bass), Johnny Jones (piano), Sam Myers (drums), Eddie Shaw
(alto sax).
1. Bobby’s Rock
2. The Sky Is Crying
3. Held My Baby Last Night
4. Make My Dreams Come True
Chess Records, Chicago, 1960. Elmore James (guitar), J. T. Brown (tenor sax),
Homesick James (bass), Johnny Jones (piano), Sam Myers (drums).
1. The Sun Is Shining
2. Stormy Monday
3. Madison Blues
4. Can’t Hold Out
5. Whose Muddy Shoes
[ 157 ]
MY ER S , JA MES , A N D R OB IN S ON SE SSI O NS
Fire Records, New York, 1960. Elmore James (guitar), Johnny Acey (piano), J. T. Brown
(tenor sax), Sam Myers (drums), Riff Ruffin (second guitar), unknown (second
saxophone).
1. Rollin’ and Tumblin’
2. I’m Worried
3. Done Somebody Wrong
4. Fine Little Mama
5. Can’t Stop Loving You
6. Early One Morning
7. Strange Angels
8. She Done Moved
9. Something Inside of Me
10. Harlem Angels
Fire/Fury Records, J&M Studios, New Orleans, 1961. Elmore James (guitar), Sammy
Lee Bully (bass), Sam Myers (drums, harmonica), Mose Taylor (drums), Moose
Walker (piano).
1. Look on Yonder Wall (Myers, harmonica, Mose, drums)
2. Shake Your Moneymaker (Myers, vocals)
3. Sunnyland (Myers, drums)
4. Poor Little Angel Child (Myers, vocals)
5. Little Girl (Myers, vocals)
6. Go Back Home Again (Myers, harmonica)
Fire Records, Beltone Studios, New York, 1960. Elmore James (guitar), Johnny Acey
(piano), J. T. Brown (tenor sax), Sam Myers (drums), Riff Ruffin (second guitar), Paul
Williams (bass), unknown (second saxophone).
1. Baby Please Set a Date
2. I Need You
Fire Records, Beltone Studios, New York, 1961. Elmore James (guitar), Johnny Acey
(piano), J. T. Brown (tenor sax), Danny Moore (trumpet), Sam Myers (drums), Riff
Ruffin (second guitar), Paul Williams (bass).
1. Anna Lee
2. Standing at the Crossroads
Enjoy Records, A-1 Studios, New York, 1963. Elmore James (guitar), Moose Walker
(piano), Sam Myers (drums), Paul Williams (bass).
1. Dust My Broom
[ 158 ]
MY ER S , JA MES , A N D R OB IN S ON S ES S I O NS
B O B B Y R O B I N SO N SE SSIONS:
Fury Records, J&M Studios, New Orleans, 1960. Dave Campbell (piano), Sam Myers
(vocals and harmonica), Mose Taylor (drums).
1. Sad, Sad Lonesome Day
2. You Don’t Have to Go
3. Sad and Lonesome
[ 159 ]
APPEARANCES, AWARDS, AND HONORS
MO TI O N P I C TUR ES
China Moon (1994). In this thriller starring Ed Harris and Madeline Stowe, Sam and
Anson with the Rockets make a cameo appearance as a bar blues band and perform
“Tell Me What I Want to Hear.”
AWAR D S AN D H O NOR S
W. C. Handy Awards, with Anson Funderburgh and the Rockets:

2004 – Traditional Album of the Year, Which Way Is Texas? (Rounder/Bullseye)
2000 – Song of the Year, “Change in My Pocket”
1994 – Band of the Year
1989 – Sam Myers, Vocalist of the Year
Song of the Year, “Changing Neighborhoods”
Album of the Year, Sins (Black Top)
Sam Myers, Instrumentalist of the Year, Other (Harmonica)
January 6, 2000 – Inducted into the Farish Street Walk of Fame at the Alamo Theater,
Jackson, Mississippi. Shared honors with Dorothy Moore and the late Sonny Boy
Williamson II (Rice Miller).
February 17, 2006 – Received Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts and named
Blues Ambassador by the Mississippi Arts Commission, presented by Haley Barbour,
Governor of Mississippi.
[ 161 ]
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Calway, Brian. “Interview with Sam Myers.” Blues and Rhythm 137 (March 1999):
26–27.
Erlewine, Michael, Vladimir Bogdanov, Chris Woodstra, Cub Koda, and Stephen
Thomas Erlewine, eds. All Music Guide to the Blues. 3rd. ed. San Francisco:
Backbeat Books, 2003.
Franz, Steve. The Amazing Secret History of Elmore James. Marceline, Mo.: Wadsworth
Publishing Company, 2002.
Harrison, Alferdteen. Piney Woods School: An Oral History. Jackson, Miss.: University
Press of Mississippi, 1982.
Howse, Pat, and Jimmy Phillips. “Godfather of the Delta Blues—H. C. Speir. An
Interview with Gayle Dean Wardlow.” The Peavy Monitor (1995): 34–44.
Jones, Laurence Clifton. The Spirit of Piney Woods. Old Tappan, N. J.: Fleming H. Revell
Company, 1931.
Leadbitter, Mike, and Neil Slaven. Blues Records 1943 to 1970: A Selective Discography,
Vol. 1 (A to K). London, UK: Record Information Services, 1987.
Leadbitter, Mike, Leslie Fancourt, and Paul Pelletier. Blues Records 1943 to 1970, Vol. 2 (L
to Z). London, UK: Record Information Services, 1994.
Leiter, Robert David. The Musicians and Petrillo. New York: Octagon Books, 1974.
Murray, Charles Shaar. Boogie Man: The Adventures of John Lee Hooker in the American
Twentieth Century. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000.
O’Neal, Jim, and Amy O’Neal. “Sam Myers in Jackson.” Living Blues 3 (Autumn 1970):
19, 21.
O’Neal, Jim, and Peter Lee. “Sam Myers: Blowing It Off the Top.” Living Blues 85 (March/
April 198): 10–21.
Romulo, Beth Day. The Little Professor of Piney Woods: The Story of Professor Laurence
Jones. New York: J. Messner, 1955.
Rowe, Mike. Chicago Blues: The City and the Music. New York: Da Capo Press, 1975.
Ryan, Marc. Trumpet Records: An Illustrated History with Discography. Winter Haven,
Fla.: Big Nickel Publications, 1992.
[ 163 ]
B IB LIOG R A PH Y
———. Diamonds on Farish Street. Jackson, Miss.: University Press of Mississippi,

2004.
Wilson, Christine, ed. All Shook Up: Mississippi Roots of American Popular Music.
Jackson, Miss.: Mississippi Department of Archives and History, 1995.
[ 164 ]
INDEX
Ace 536, 79 Battle of the Harmonicas, 139

Ace Records, 54, 75, 79 Beale Street, 126
Alabama, 42 Beavis and Butthead, 131
Allen, George, 70 Bebop style, 108–9
Alligator Records, 89 Bees Knees, 137
American Conservatory of Music, Below, Fred, 128
29, 35, 37 Bennett, Wayne, 34, 37, 53–54
American Federation of Musicians, Benno, Marc, 137
108, 110 Berklee College of Music, 29
Anne Banks Street, 66 Berry, Walter, 67, 70, 80
Anson Funderburgh and the Rockets, 121; “Big Boat Whistle,” 65
featuring Sam Myers, 137–39, 141 Big Three Trio, 28, 96
Antone, Clifford, 134–35 Bihari, Joe, 53–54
Antone’s, 134 Bihari, Jules, 53–54
Arkansas, 89, 118, 138 Billboard magazine, 87
Arnold, Billy Boy (William Arnold), 105 Birmingham, Alabama, 76
Asazawa, Gary, 70 Black Top Records, 72, 121, 123, 138
Assaf, Woodie, 27 Bland, Bobby “Blue” (Robert Bland), 37,
Atlanta, Georgia, 64 53, 70, 86, 97, 125
Atlantic Records, 53 Blue Light Blues Band, The, 69
Austin, Texas, 62, 134, 137 “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” 20
Blue Norther, 137
“Baby Please Don’t Go,” 121 Blues, the: elements of, 85–86; styles of,
Back Beat Records, 62 87–89; types of, 83–85
“Bad Acting Woman,” 100 “Boogie Chillen,” 121
Barranco, Johnny, 70 Booth, Eddie, 4, 7
Basie, Count (William Basie), 91 Boston, Massachusetts, 88
[ 165 ]
IN D EX
Boyd, Tom, 100 Club 77, 55

Boze, Calvin, 28 College Park Auditorium, 77
Bracey, Ishmon, 74 Colt’s Booking Agency, 52
Braille, 4, 76, 99 Columbus, Mississippi, 70
Bramhall, Doyle, Sr., 137 Coming from the Old School, 99
Broadway, 110 Commercial recordings, banning of, 108
Brooks, Lonnie, 92 Cooke, Sam, 37–38
Broonzy, Big Bill, 89 “Cool, Cool Blues,” 94
Brown, Clarence “Gatemouth,” 122 Cotton, James, 94
Brown, J. T., 54 Cotton, picking of, 14–18
Brown, Jonas, 25–27 Cray, Robert, 120
Brown, Mel, 70, 81 “Crosscut Saw,” 118
Brown, Willie, 74 Crowley, Walter, 80
Bulley, Sammy Lee, 68 Crudup, Arthur “Big Boy,” 89
Burks, Michael, 89 Curtis, James, 94
California, 42, 44, 70, 88 Dallas, Texas, 4, 19, 45, 62, 99, 101, 122,
Calway, Brian (Hash Brown), 101, 104–7 137, 139
Camden, Texas, 62 David Hickey Agency, 139
Camel cigarettes, 7–8, 132 Deance, Bob, 70
Campbell, Dave, 68, 81 Decca Records, 65–66
Campbell, Little Milton, 79, 91–92, 96 Delmark Records, 54
Canada, 81, 100 Delta blues, 87–88
“Can’t Hold Out,” 53, 115 Delta Road, 137
Cellar Club, 137 Detroit, Michigan, 51, 130
Chess Records, 43, 51, 53–54, 96–97, 114, “Devil’s Stomp,” 121
117, 129 Dixon, Leon, 67, 70
Chicago, Illinois, 5, 16, 29, 31, 33–54, 58, 63, Dixon, Willie, 43, 67, 96–97, 117
65–66, 68, 76, 81, 89, 92, 94–95, 105, 108, Dorsey, Lee, 115
113–14, 126, 130 Down Home in Mississippi, 100
Chicago blues, 87 Downbeats, The, 69
Chicago family, 41–44 Duke Recording Co., 62
Chicago Soul Stirrers, The, 38 Duke Records, 62, 122
“Chicken Shack,” 39 “Dust My Broom,” 38, 51–52, 55
Chittlin’ Circuit, 38, 51, 62, 76
Chords, 90 Eastman-Gardiner Co., 3
Cincinnati, Ohio, 133 Ebony Network, The, 76
Civil War, 3–4, 65 Edison, Thomas, 112
Clapton, Eric, 120 Edwards, Sid, 19–21; death of, 21
Clarksdale, Mississippi, 37, 96, 121 Electro-Fi Records, 99
Cleveland, Ohio, 132 Elks Club, 70
[ 166 ]
IN D EX
Embry, John, 68 Greenville, Mississippi, 70, 125

Embry, Sylvia, 68 Grisham, Doris, 41
Enjoy Records, 51 Grisham, Sandra Faye (daughter), 41
Evers, Charles, 33 Guitar Gable, 92
Evers, Medgar, 33 Guitar Junior, 92
“Eyesight to the Blind,” 94 Guy, Buddy (George Guy), 34, 91
Fairlee, Charles, 70 Hammond, John, Jr., 89

Farish, Walter, 74 Hardwell & Cook’s, 27
Farish Street, 27, 57, 74, 77, 79 Harmonica: styles of, 105, 141;
Farish Street Historical District, 74 technique, 102–7
Farish Street Walk of Fame, 78 Harpo, Slim (James Moore), 87
Fayetteville, Arkansas, 89 Harris, Wynonie, 35, 97
Federal Bureau of Investigation, 115–17 Hash Brown. See Calway, Brian
Fender Bassman amplifier, 106, 139 Hastings Street, 121
Field singing, 17 Hattiesburg, Mississippi, 70
Fire and Fury sessions, 52, 67–68, 70 Helena, Arkansas, 93–95
Fire Records, 51–54 Henry’s Swing Club, 121
Fleming, Willie Mae, 42, 44–46 Hill, Big Bill, 52
Florida, 64 Hill, Norman, 70
Forest City, Arkansas, 126 Hinds County, Mississippi, 57
Foster’s Nightclub, 69 Hite, Les, 88
“From the Bottom,” 82 Hohner harmonicas, 107
Funderburgh, Anson, 71–73, 78, 95, 124, Hooker, John Lee, 121–22
129, 131, 134–36, 137–44 Hopkins, Lightnin’ (Sam Hopkins), 88,
Funderburgh, Renée, 135 137, 142
Fury Records, 52, 54, 116 Horton, Big Walter, 105, 141
Horton, Craig, 70
Game of the Day, The, 5 Horton, Robin, xi
Gant, Ella Pearl, 29 House, Son (Eddie House), 74
Garland, Pete, 70 Houston, Texas, 62, 90, 111
Garlow, Clarence, 92 Howlin’ Wolf (Chester Burnett), 34–35,
Gary, Indiana, 33, 43 96, 127–28
George Street Grocery, 71, 73, 138 Huddleston, Duke, 45–46
“Get Out of My Life, Woman,” 115 Hurricane Katrina, 3
Gleason’s Bar, 132
“Going Home,” 90 “I get so lonely in the middle of the night
Gold Dust powder, 8 . . . ,” 125
Golden Key Ballroom, 62 “I would rather see you / Sleeping in the
Granada Theater, 137 ground . . . ,” 79, 120
Grand Emporium, The, 135 “If a young boy hangs around . . . ,” 55
[ 167 ]
IN D EX
“I’m not gonna work another Kansas City, Missouri, 135

day . . . ,” 17 Keaton, Alan B., 27
In the Groove, 27 Kentucky Headhunters, The, 134–35
“It Hurts Me Too,” 53 KFFA, 94
Iz, Joanna, 4, 99 King, Albert, 89, 118–19, 137
King, B.B., xi, xii, 82, 86–87, 89–91, 97, 143
Jack Daniel’s, 62 King, Freddie, 87, 91, 122–23
Jackson, President Andrew, 65 King, Jimmie, 67
Jackson, Grady “Fats,” 54 King Biscuit Blues Festival, 94–95
Jackson, Mississippi, xi, 3, 5, 19, 23–24, King Biscuit Boys, The, 94–95
27–28, 32–33, 44–45, 48, 51, 53–57, 60, King Biscuit Flour Co., 94
63–64, 94–96, 115, 138; Myers living in, King Cotton Festival, 126
65–73; and radio broadcasting, 74–78; King Mose and the Royal Rockers, 66,
recording in, 78–82 76–77, 124
Jackson, Willie Christine, 31–32 King of the Hill, 131
Jackson family, 44–50 Knoxville, Tennessee, 71
Jackson Iron and Metal Co., KOKA, 76
60–61 KOKY, 76
Jackson State University, 77
James, Elmore, xi, 34, 37, 44, 51–64, Lamar club, 69
66–68, 75, 93, 106, 110, 113–15, 118, Lamplight sessions, 115
122, 126–29, 132 Laurel, Mississippi, 3–5, 7, 14, 17
James, Skip (Nehemiah James), 74 LeFleur’s Bluff, 65
J&M Studios, 114 Lipscomb, Mance, 88
Jive Parade, 27 “Little Car Blues,” 95
Joe Louis Gym, 31 “Little Girl,” 67
John Gaston Hospital, 9 Little Rock, Arkansas, 76
Johnny’s Records, 79 Little Walter (Walter Jacobs), 34–35, 93,
Johnson, Luther, 92 101–2, 104–5, 141
Johnson, Robert, 38, 52, 74 Lockwood, Robert, Jr., xi, xii, 34, 71, 89,
Johnson, Sherman “Blues,” 79 93–95, 128–29
Johnson, Tommy, 74 “Look on Yonder Wall,” 52, 106
Jonas, Joe (Joseph Jones), 4 Los Angeles, California, 37, 53, 140
Jones, John Paul, 3 Louis, Joe Hill (The One-Man Band), 97
Jones, Johnny, 54 Louisiana, 19, 54, 92, 107, 138
Jones, Laurence C., 23, 28–29 Love, Willie, 94, 96
Jones County, Mississippi, 3–4, 14 Lula, Mississippi, 70
Jordan, Louis, 28, 35, 39 Lynchburg, Tennessee, 61
Judge, Mike, 131
Juilliard School, 29 MacMillan, Brent, 137
Juvenile cataracts, 4, 9 “Madison Blues,” 51, 53
[ 168 ]
IN D EX
Malaco Records, 70 Mutual Radio Network, 5

Martin, Jody, 77 “My baby gives me a high temperature
Mason, William, 3 . . . ,” 129
Masonite, 3, 5 My Love Is Here to Stay, 138–39
Matassa, Cosimo, 54, 115–16 “My Love Is Here to Stay,” 72, 79, 94, 138
Maxwell, Ben, 21–22; death of, 22 Myers, Celeste (mother), 3–4, 10–11, 24
Maxwell Street, 34–35 Myers, Mary Nell (sister), 3
McClendon, John, 75 Myers, Ollie (father), 3–6, 10–12, 24, 41
McCormick Convention Center Myers, Ollie, Jr. (brother), 3
(Chicago, Illinois), 43 Myers, Wardell (brother), 3
McCoy, Sid, 39–40; death of, 40 Myers, Willie Earl (son), 4, 12–13, 41,
McGilvery, Charles, 25–27 44–49, 126
McMurry, Lillian, 51, 75, 78–79, 81–82, 95
McMurry, Willard, 75 NAACP, 71
Medgar Evers Homecoming, 33 National Industries for the Blind, 69
Memphis, Tennessee, 9–10, 19, 89, Nelson, Ford, 97
96–97, 126 “Nelson Street Blues,” 95
Meridian, Mississippi, 79 New Deal Supermarket, 77
Miller, Rice (Sonny Boy Williamson II), New Orleans, Louisiana, 52, 54, 71–72, 77,
75, 78–79, 82, 92–94, 101, 104 114–15, 138
Miller, Robert, 69 “New Vicksburg Blues,” 65
Milton, Richard, 70 New York, New York, 46–47, 52, 54, 88, 113
Mississippi, 33–34, 38, 42, 47, 55–56, 63, Newhouse, Jackie, 138
70–72, 79, 87, 105, 107, 138; oldest black Newman, Sam, 56–60
radio station in, 75–76 Nightcrawlers, The, 137
Mississippi Delta Blues Band, 70 Nighthawk, Robert (Robert McCoy), 35
Mississippi Delta region, 4, 16–17 “Nightmare Blues,” 121
Mississippi Industries for the Blind, 28, North Texas State University, 29
48, 68–69, 71–72 Norwood, Sherman, 70
Mississippi State University, 70, 124 Nulisch, Darrell, 138–39
“Misty,” 102
Mobile, Alabama, 4, 41, 45–46, 48–49 Oakland, California, 71
Modern Records, 53 O’Brien, Derek, 135
Moonshining, 56–61 Office Space, 131
Moore, Dorothy, 78 “Oke-She-Moke-She-Pop,” 53
Moore, Scotty, 89 Oklahoma, 138
Moss Point, Mississippi, 70 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, 37
Mr. P’s club, 55 One-Man Band, The (Joe Hill
Muddy Waters (McKinley Morganfield), Louis), 97
35, 88, 92, 96, 105, 141 Oregon, 31
Musician union strike of 1944, 74 Original style, development of, 92
[ 169 ]
IN D EX
Palm Garden club, 70 Robinson, Bobby, 52, 54, 67, 116

Palo Alto, California, 100 Robinson, Jesse, 70
Paramount Recording Co., 74 Rogers Black Pearls drums, 62–63
Pascagoula, Mississippi, 70 Rogers, Jimmy, 105–6, 142
Patton, Charley, 74 “Rollin’ and Tumblin’, ” 51
Payne, Lt. Colonel, 30–31 Rose Hill, Mississippi, 3
Payne, Odie, 38, 62–63, 128 Royalties, lack of payment of, 81–82, 112
Payne, “Sunshine” Sonny, 94 RPM Records, 54
Peacock Records, 62 Russell, Jesse James, 67, 70
Pearl River, Mississippi, xi, 56, 65 Rynack, Doug, 138
Petrillo, James C., 108, 110
Petrillo’s War, 108 “Sad, Sad Lonesome Day,” 67–68
Phoenix City, Illinois, 39 “Sad and Lonesome,” 67
Phonograph, invention of, 112 Sadler, Haskell, 70
Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity, 124 “Sally Mae,” 121
Piedmont blues, 88 San Francisco Blues Festival, 139–40
Pilgrim Travelers, The, 37 Sanders, Willie Roy, 118–19
Piney Woods Band Glee Club, 24 S&S club, 63, 132
Piney Woods region, 3 Satellite Club, 62
Piney Woods School, 5, 19, 23–33, 35, Sawmills, working in, 21–22
37, 99 Scott, Hammond, 121, 138–39
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 51 Scott, Naumann, 121
Plano, Texas, 137 “Scratch My Back,” 87
“Poor Little Angel Child,” 67, 106 Sea-Saint Studios, 115
Presley, Elvis, 89 Sehorn, Marshall, 115–16
Professional musicians’ jam, 90 “Set a Date,” 115
Pryor, Snooky (James Pryor), 105 708 Club, 96
Public domain, 119 Seven Sons, The, 79
Push N’ Pull Club, 70 Shades of Rhythm, The, 67
“Shout Brother Shout,” 95
Railroads, construction of, 18–21 Shreveport, Louisiana, 76
Rains, George, 134 Silars, Willie, 70
Rankin County, Mississippi, 23, 57, 60 Silvio’s club, 39, 127–28
Rawls, Lou, 37–38 Simpson, John, 64, 132
Reconstruction, 4 Simpson, Percy, 55, 61, 63, 69, 132
Recording sessions, early days of, “Sittin’ on my ya ya, waitin’ on my La La
113–14, 117 . . . ,” 116
Reed, Jimmy, 97, 122 Sixty Minutes, 23
Reed, Mary (wife of Jimmy), 122 “Sky Is Crying, The,” 51, 54, 115
Revolutionary War, 3 “Sleeping in the Ground,” 75, 79–81, 94,
Robey, Don, 62, 90, 111, 122 119–21
[ 170 ]
IN D EX
Smith & Wesson .38, 24 Taylor, Hound Dog (Theodore

Smith Robertson School, 32 Taylor), 35
Song-writing process, 99–100, 142–43 Taylor, King Mose, 65–66, 80, 124–26;
Sonny Boy Blues Museum, 95 death of, 68
Sonny Boy Blues Society, 95 “Temperature,” 129
Sonny Boy Meal, 94 Temple, Johnny, 61, 65–67
Sonny Boy Williamson (John “Tennessee Waltz, The,” 20
Williamson), 28, 92–93, 104 Terry, Sonny, 104
Sonny Boy Williamson II. See Miller, Texas, 81, 87–88, 91, 111, 123
Rice Texas blues, 87–88
Soul Stirrers, The, 38 Texas Slim (John Lee Hooker), 121
Sound Cloud, 137 “These Young Girls Are about to Drive
Sound Corporation, The, 70 Me Wild,” 39
South Side (Chicago, Illinois), 34 Thomas, Rufus, 97
Southwest Blues magazine, 4, 99 Thompson, Tommy Lee, 81, 100
Speir, H. C., 74 “Tiger Rag,” 91
Spiegel, 42–43 TJ Records, 100
St. Louis, Missouri, 95 Toussaint, Allen, 115
Stanford University, 42 Traylor, Kenny, 130
“Stardust,” 102 Trianon Ballroom, 96
“Stars and Stripes Forever, The,” Trumpet Records, 51, 54, 75, 78–79,
26–27 82, 95
Stillwell Reservoir, 56 Tucker, Luther, 129
Stitt, Sonny (Edward Stitt), 102 “Turn On Your Love Light,” 125
“Stormy Monday,” 51 Turner, Big Joe, 53–54
Stout, Eddie, 138 Turner, Ike, 96
Street, John, 142 “T.V. Mama,” 53
Sully’s club, 130 “Twelve-Year-Old Boy, The,” 53–54
Sun Records, 96
“Sunnyland,” 53 Union musician testing, 109–10
Sunnyland Slim (Peter Chatman), 96 University Medical Center (Memphis,
Sunset Inn, 69 Tennessee), 45, 80
Sure Shot Records, 62 University of Mississippi, 70, 124
Swancey, Doug, 130–31 University of Southern Mississippi, 70
“Symphony C,” 27
Vaughan, Stevie Ray, 137
Talk to You by Hand, 138 Vee-Jay Records, 53, 122
Tallulah, Louisiana, 70 Vicksburg, Mississippi, 76, 96
Tampa, Florida, 76 Victor Recording Co., 74
Taylor, Dudlow, 94 Vincent, Johnny, 54, 75, 79, 81, 120
Taylor, Fingers (Greg Taylor), 139 Vocalion Records, 74
[ 171 ]
IN D EX
W. C. Handy Award, 101 Williams, Anna Mae, 25–27, 32–33

Wagon Wheel club, 45 Williams, Big Joe, 121
Waite, Freddie, 67 Willie Love and the Three Aces, 94
Walden, Freddie, 138 Wilson, Kim, 134–35
Walker, Big Moose, 68 Winchester .30-30, 58
Walker, T-Bone (Aaron Walker), 28, 35, Windy City Six, The, 38
39, 87–88, 97 WJDX, 27
Washington (state), 31 WOKJ, 75–77, 82
WDIA, 97, 118 WOPA, 52
WENN, 76 World War I, 65
West Coast blues, 88 World War II, 14, 108
West Davis Street, 33, 45, 132–33 World’s Fair: 1982, 71; 1984, 71–72
West Memphis, Arkansas, 118 WYOU, 76
“West Memphis Blues,” 94
Wheelin’ on Beale, 97 “Ya Ya,” 115
White, Malcolm, 138 “You Don’t Have to Go,” 67–68
“White Heat,” 26 “You Know I’m Coming Home,” 53
White House, The, 138 Young, Richard, 135
White Rose club, 39
“Whose Muddy Shoes,” 53 Zanzibar Club, 96
Wilkins, Joe Willie, 95
[ 172 ]

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SAM MYERS

UNIVERSITY PRESS OF MISSISSIPPI / JACKSON

The University Press of Mississippi is a member of the

Copyright © 2006 by University Press of Mississippi

First edition 2006

British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

CHAPTER 2. COTTON FIELDS, RAILROADS, AND SAWMILLS [ 14 ]

CHAPT ER 5. CHICAGO AND JACKSON FAMILIES [ 41 ]

CHAPT ER 8. JACKSON RADIO AND RECORDING [ 74 ]

CH A PT ER 10. THE HARMONICA [ 101 ]

C H A PT ER 11. THE MUSICIANS’ UNION [ 108 ]

CH A PT ER 1 2. THE RECORD BUSINESS [ 112 ]

CH A PT ER 1 3. STORIES FROM THE ROAD [ 124 ]

CHAPTER 1 4. SAM’S BEST FRIEND, ANSON FUNDERBURGH [ 137 ]

S ON G CATA LOG [ 155 ]

S AM MY ER S , ELMOR E JA MES , A N D B OB B Y R OB IN SO N SE SSI O NS [ 157 ]

A PPEA R A N CES , AWA R D S , A N D H ON O R S [ 161 ]

My first thanks go to my wife, Robin, who pushed me to write Sam

The idea of writing Sam Myers’s life story came to me because of

Samuel Joseph Myers was born in Laurel, Mississippi, on February 19,

the Mississippi Delta a hundred miles to the northwest. A county census

O l l i e Mye r s ( S a m’s Father):

My childhood was a unique thing; I used to be into a whole lot of

Ed di e Booth ( S a m’s Childhood Friend):

When I was about twelve, maybe thirteen, something happened as to

COTTON FIELDS, RAILROADS,

While conditions in pre–World War II Jones County, Mississippi, were

cement finisher, or a musician. If you wanted to be a doctor, they even

The first thing he did, he opened up the trailer wanting to know

the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago. That’s where I met a

music that you were doing, regardless as to what you do by somebody

Sam’s career as an itinerant bluesman didn’t lend itself to much of a

Mississippi, and we had our sideline business, the moonshine stuff.

dropped a bag of reefer and a bunch of pills on the floorboard of his

Starting off in 1952, Elmore was paying me thirty-five dollars a night,

would do recordings with the same people he traveled with, and

We went in it, not blindfolded, and we got out of it at the right

“That do sound strange.” I said, “Yeah.” He said, “Hot dog, I heard it

the Tennessee distilleries, to make Jack Daniel’s. I had thought it was

promise?” So after he passed, as long as Percy was in business, I played

Jackson, Mississippi, was originally a trading post on the west bank of

I was living permanently in Jackson by 1956, rooming with a friend

In the mid-1950s the music scene in Jackson, Mississippi, was thriving.

In Jackson, Mississippi, I was a disc jockey at WOKJ radio. We would

I would rather see you

Sleeping in the ground

Well, I give you all my money,

Well, I would rather see you

You know I give you all my money,

[1956, words and music by Sam Myers]

The people who played on it was King Mose Taylor on drums,

my CD, remembering back when Miss Lillian McMurry was recording

A good example of a great blues musician who could bring out

contest, he could protect himself with what he know as a musician.

with a picture of him on the bag, which I thought was an honorary

number of a freight train. He mentioned, “74 rolls right by my baby’s

record, be at the studio at such-and-such a time and such-and-such

into the studio at Electro-Fi Records up in Canada to record the CD,

I got my harmonica playing style by not copying nothing from

THE MUSICIANS’ UNION