Written by Dave Rowe –
It took two beers but finally George got his courage up to speak to Tanya, the deeply cleavaged, dark-eyed beauty behind the bar at Max’s. Finally, following a throat-clearing, it came – “So I understand you guys are gonna have music tomorrow night.”
“That’s right,” Tanya replied. “We’re gonna see how it goes.”
“So what kind of music?”
“Blues – some guy by the name of Lockman or something like that.”
“Lockman – you must mean Robert Junior Lockwood.”
“Yeah, I think that’s it – you’ve heard of him?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him lots of times but always on the east side – he’s black.”
“Well, you better check him out here.”
George gave his assurances and that next morning at work – he was a book shelver at his west-side suburban library – things were slow so he did some research – Who’s Who in American Music. In it was (and still is) a listing for Robert Junior Lockwood – “One of the last of the original Delta bluesmen.” “King of the blues twelve-string electric guitar.” “Stepson of the immortal Robert Johnson.” “Mentor to B.B. King.”
At home after work George dined as usual on hot dog slices in canned baked beans and studied his encased six-string acoustic in a corner of the room. There was though, the usual roadblock – corpulent roommate Ned stationed on the sofa in front of the TV. Dishes washed, George walked over and gazed at the screen – an info babe reading the local news. “So George,” asked Ned, “you going anyplace tonight?”
“Yeah, I’m going to Max’s. Robert Junior Lockwood’s gonna be there.”
“Robert Junior Lockwood – doesn’t he have the sense to not go where he’s not wanted?”
George shut his eyes, shook his head and said nothing.
Business at Max’s that night was brisk – fortunately there was one barstool open. Music, chugging then jumping, was emanating from the back wall. It was Lockwood with three white sidemen – a bassist, a drummer, a rhythm guitarist – and they looked and sounded authentic, the real thing. They eventually took a break and George, this time emboldened by two rum and Cokes, approached Lockwood with a sense of purpose.
“My name’s George,” he said, extending a hand. “I’ve always liked your music. I’m a free-lance writer and I’d like to write an article on you for Cleveland Magazine.”
Lockwood gave a bemused smile following the handshake. “A writer huh? Why don’t you come in next Friday with some of your work and maybe we can transact some business.”
Walking home, Robert Junior Lockwood and his band playing in his head, George debated what to bring in – his college clips went back to the late seventies, he had a bunch of concert reviews that made their way into print over the past couple years, a Steven Stills review from last spring and one from his college days, a tuition hike and what it would mean to minority students.
That next Friday night Lockwood looked at the clips. They were seated at the bar, a smiling Tanya taking in the scene. Lockwood stroked his salt and pepper beard then said “You’re good, son – we should do an interview.”
Arrangements were made – Tuesday at 2pm at George and Ned’s apartment. Ned would thankfully be off at his downtown dishwashing gig. As was the case with most mornings off, George played guitar, picking and singing this time the Robert Johnson tunes he knew. Finally, following a lot of cigarettes, at precisely two, there came the knock – Robert Junior Lockwood, large manila envelope in hand. In the envelope were publicity stills and in the interview George asked if he’d seen the entry in the Who’s Who.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it.”
“Is it all true?”
“Yeah, they got it right.”
“They said you mentored B.B. King – what was that like?”
“Gratifying – the kid caught fire.”
“So then there’s Robert Johnson – do you have memories of him?”
Lockwood bristled. “Of course I do. I was seventeen when he died. He and I played together on and off for three years.”
“So what about people saying he sold his soul to the devil in order to play better?”
“That was hype he made up – got us a lot of gigs.”
“So then there was his death – the way I understand it is he was poisoned by a jealous husband.”
“That’s the truth – he didn’t do the ring test.”
“The ring test – check the ring finger of the left hand – my father taught me that.”
“You have a wise father – does he live around here?”
“No, he died about five years ago.”
“I’m sorry. At least I see you’ve got a guitar – what is it?”
“It’s a Gibson. I’d be honored if you would play something on it for me.”
“I will but first I wanna see what you can do.”
George gurgled an OK then went and got his guitar and went into Robert Johnson’s “Steady Rolling Man” with his voice and his chording getting more assured with each verse.
“Steady Rolling Man,” said Lockwood. “So where did you learn that?”
“Off an Eric Clapton record. Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones – what do you think of those guys making millions playing your music.”
“Oh I can learn off any professional musician, now hand me that guitar.”
“Sweet Home Chicago” was what came next and when Lockwood was through George peppered him again. “I guess Chicago is still the blues capitol of the world – how come you’re here instead of there.”
“This is my wife’s hometown.”
On that note the interview ended and the article got written and submitted. It was several weeks later at Max’s that George and Lockwood next spoke. “Oh man,” said George. “That article is going nowhere.”
“Now shut up son, shut up and listen to something important – Annie and I are leaving town for a while – my brother’s seriously ill in Arizona and we need to be with him.”
That was followed up with a wink then, “I told Max what you can do and you might get a gig. And that girl behind the bar, she passes the ring test, checked it out for you myself.”
__________________________________________________________
I’m a native Clevelander who moved here about 12 years ago, taken by the scenic beauty and the eclectic lifestyle. I’ve worked as a journalist and as part owner of a janitorial business and now I concentrate on music and once again writing.
