Sonny Boy's Blues

It was another hot summer morning in south Mississippi when I got the call from my features editor Ed Bates at the Hattiesburg American to work my day off. July of 1976 would go down in the record books as one of the hottest summer months Mississippi had seen in the past thirty years. I had covered the Forrest county city council meeting until 11 p.m. the night before. At least I think it was the night before. My job as a newspaper reporter tends to blend night into day with its demands of working whenever there is a story to tell. I submitted my piece to the paper at midnight and had come home and gone right to bed. Another mundane article by me, Rick Jacobs, feature reporter. As I picked up the telephone I looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. “Hello, I’m not even going to guess who it is. I know it’s you Ed. What do you want, it’s my day off remember?” Whatever Ed wanted, he usually got, he was my boss, and I needed the job. Remember to be nice I said to myself, as I tried to recall why I got a journalism degree from USM instead of an engineering degree from Mississippi State like my parents would have liked. “Rick, you need to get down to the Glen Oaks Nursing Home in Lucedale, Mississippi right away. Aldous Ray wants to talk.” “Aldous Ray? Are you referring to Aldous ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray I excitedly asked?” “You know him Rick?” Ed asked. “Do I know him? Do I know him? For God’s sakes Ed, he’s just one of the most influential blues guitarists to have ever breathed! I’m on my way. Wait, where is he, did you say Lucedale? Oh my God, I’m going to interview Aldous Ray!” Ed knew I would take this assignment. I was a student of the blues having played guitar throughout my college days, paying tuition with any gig I could score. From coffee houses, bars, pool halls…I had done them all. I knew the music of ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray from his contribution to Mississippi delta blues. He had never agreed to an interview until now, and I was going to be sitting in the same room with one of my idols.
I jumped into the cleanest pair of clothes I had, got into my car and headed south. The sun would be my companion today as I took the drive down highway 98 to Lucedale. I would pass through sleepy small towns with names of New Augusta, and McLain. I would cross bridges with rivers flowing beneath by the names of Leaf, and Chickasawhay. It was a welcome assignment in more ways than one. Being out on the open road was a respite from a stuffy office, or sitting in on a boring city council meeting. Meeting Mr. Aldous ‘Sonny Boy’ Ray would be the highlight of my career. Whatever Mr. Ray wanted to say, I would be the one to record it all.
Plenty of time to take pause on the trip and think of the questions I would pose to Mr. Ray. I’ll ask him who influenced his music. I’ll ask him why he left Mississippi in the 1940’s and moved to Chicago. I’ll ask him about playing in Memphis in the 1950’s. As a student of the Mississippi delta blues, I knew all too well his music, where he played, his hit songs, even the name of his beloved guitar. He affectionately named his 1945 Martin 00-18 guitar ‘Sweetness’. This famous guitar was built with an Adirondack spruce top and scalloped braces, mahogany back and sides and Brazilian fingerboard and bridge. It was a lovely guitar that had been featured on the cover of several magazines in the past twenty years. Most recently, Guitar Magazine had featured ‘Sweetness’ on its cover page, calling it "the purest sounding guitar ever manufactured by man.” How I would love to hold that guitar in my hands if only for a moment!
As my mind went over the questions I would ask, the town of Lucedale slowly came into view. With directions offered at the local Texaco station on Main Street, I found my way to Glen Oaks nursing home. As I walked down the hallway to the nursing station, I was greeted by the charge nurse, a Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. Nurse Rounsaville escorted me to the room of the man who I had come to see, the world’s greatest living blue’s guitarist. “Mr. Ray…Mr. Ray you have a visitor from the paper. He says his name is Mr. Jacobs.” Mr. Ray raised his head up from his pillow and looked towards the door. “Do come in Mr. Jacobs.” I’ve been expecting you all mornin’, I hope your drive from Hattiesburg was enjoyable.” “Yes sir, it was quite enjoyable. Getting out of the office once in a while is a delight,” I replied. With pleasantries aside I retrieved my notepad from my briefcase and took a seat next to Mr. Ray’s bedside and began to do like any good reporter and ask the five basic questions of Who, What, When, Where and Why. “Tell me Mr. Ray, who was it that taught you how to play the blues?" Mr. Ray lay silent for a full minute before he spoke.
“Young man, stand up!” I did as Mr. Ray said not quite understanding what he wanted. “Now turn around and face the door.” OK, I thought this a little strange but again, I had a story to write and I assumed this would all be a part of it. “Now, young man, you can show yourself out the door, and close it as you leave.” “I’m sorry, you want me to leave?” I asked. “What I want you to do is get the hell out of my room Mr. Jacobs! You young people nowadays. Ain't nobody teaches nobody how to play the blues. You either got it or you don't. It's given to you when you born. I happened to be blessed. Just show yourself out the door.” I was stunned. I had offended Mr. 'Sonny Boy' Ray. I had committed the ultimate sin for a reporter! Had I not shown enough respect? I had asked the wrong question. I failed in my job. The only thing I could do now was apologize to one of my idols, so I did. “Mr. Ray, I’m very sorry I offended you. I suppose I started on the wrong foot, and I humbly apologize to you and 'Sweetness'. I best be getting back to Hattiesburg. Good day, Sir.” As soon as the word ‘Sweetness’ came out of my mouth, I had my interview. “Hold on there young man…how do you know ‘Sweetness’? Now you just come back in here and pull up a chair and let me tell you all about the blues.” I had my hook set, now all I needed to do was start reeling. I smelled a Pulitzer wafting in the air.
“You know son, ‘Sweetness’ is my guitar. A fine guitar she is too; a 1945 Martin, model 00-18. She’s a beauty, and never let me down. I played her on my biggest hit Walkin’ in High Cotton. You’ve heard that haven’t you son? I still sings those lyrics in my head ever now and then...'Oh you pick cotton fifty cent a day, tote that cotton that's what I say...what I see when I look down...ain't no money in this ground'." Indeed I had heard of Walkin’ in High Cotton. It was only the biggest selling blue’s piece in history. “Well, ‘Sweetness’ was a gift to me from a very special friend by the name of Muddy Waters. I guess you probably heard of him. Make yourself comfortable, this story don’t go nowhere fast and I probably need to tell it before I pass. I was born in Sunflower county Mississippi in 1910. My world was cotton, cotton, and mo’ cotton. We used to say they would bury us neath the cotton gin when we was gone, and I believed it. Me and my brothers would pick cotton from daylight until late afternoon six days a week. I did that until I was old enough to be on my own and look for work elsewhere. I did try to join the army when I was of age, but got turned down because of my big flat feet. I finally found a job as a truck driver hauling pigs from Chicago to Memphis in the 1940’s. Chicago was a fine town in the 40’s. There were blues clubs all up and down Michigan Avenue. That’s where I met Muddy Waters. Muddy was the real deal. He would play his set and then still hang around the club until 3 or 4 in the morning and just jam with the local cats. That’s when I was introduced to him. I played a little guitar from my days growing up in the delta. Muddy said I had a unique delta blues sound to my licks. One thing led to another and before I knew it, every time I was in Chicago, we would hook up and jam after his gig. It wasn’t long before I was playing sets of blues with him on stage at the clubs in Chicago. We became good friends. I didn’t have enough money to afford a real nice guitar, so Muddy gave me ‘Sweetness’ that beautiful Martin 6 string before I moved on to Memphis in 1953. ‘Sweetness’ has been my only true love.” I sat there at the side of the bed and didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. Mr. Ray was telling it all, and I wasn’t about to interrupt.
“Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, I moved on down to Memphis in 1953. I gave up the truck driving. I was making a name for myself in the music business by that time. I played almost every club on Beale Street. You know Beale Street, now don’t you son? I remember meeting a young Elvis Presley in 1954. He was driving a truck then too. He was always coming into the black clubs and listening to the blues that was played. That boy was always asking about the songs we played, the chords we played. He wanted to know everything he could learn. Elvis had a lot of questions. A real nice young man that Elvis. I remember giving him a little bit of advice one night after a hard set of the blues. I told him ‘always keep yo’ hands clean Elvis’. Muddy used to say that to me. He would say 'Don’t wash yo’ hands in Muddy Waters'. Who would have thought that Elvis would have a hit with that title? Washed my hands in Muddy Waters! Now if that don’t beat all! Now Mr. Jacobs, excuse me if I get a little excited with all this talking ‘bout the past. The doctor gots me on a pressure pill to keeps my blood down. He tell me not to get too excited.” As Mr. Ray took a break, a knock on the door sounded and a woman with a plate of rice and beans came into the room. “Mr. Ray, it’s Miss Nettie. I brought you that red beans and rice. I cooked them up special just like you asked.” “Come on in Miss Nettie,” Mr. Ray said. “I could smell you coming down the hall child.” I could tell it was time for me to leave. Mr Ray looked tired from our interview, and I didn’t want to keep him from his meal, so I bid him a farewell with the promise to come back the following week and continue where we had left off. I told Mr. Ray that I would get his story in the Hattiesburg American the next morning. As I was packing up my notepad and papers to leave, Mr. Ray asked me, “Rick, when you come back next week could you sneak me a small bottle of Jack Daniels? I know it’s against the rules here, but I won’t tell if you won’t.” I promised to bring him a small bottle, but it was just between the two of us. “Two peas in a pod” I said. “It’s a Mississippi delta blues thing,” was his comeback. We both laughed as I parted. I was already looking forward to next week.
I got back to Hattiesburg at 6 that evening and had my story in for print by 9 p.m. After a late supper I fell asleep on the couch. It only seemed like a few moments before the telephone rang, it was my editor Ed Bates. I looked up at the clock, it was already 7 a.m. Immediately I thought he was calling me to congratulate me on the stellar piece I wrote on Aldous Ray. Instead, I got jolted off of the couch with these words. “Rick, I’m sorry to tell you this. Aldous Ray passed away late last night. He had a stroke around midnight and died in the Emergency Room at the George County Hospital in Lucedale. By the way, your article on Mr. Ray was just what this paper needed. I hope that helps…take the next couple of days off. I’ll see you then.”
I was speechless, and with that news delivered, Ed hung up the telephone and I lay my head back down on the couch cushion and wept. The world had lost a living legend.
I awoke again at 10 a.m. to the ring of the telephone. It was the charge nurse of the Glen Oaks nursing home, Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. She asked if I would attend the funeral of Mr. Ray. The funeral was set for Saturday afternoon at the George County Funeral Home with burial to follow at the George County Memorial Gardens at 2 p.m. “Of course I will be there, Mrs. Rounsaville.” Yes, of course I would. Although having only met ‘Sonny Boy’ the day before, I undeniably felt a common bond with this man. A man who would be remembered as a pioneer of a style of music that was purely American.
I drove down to Lucedale the following Saturday morning. I didn’t attend the eulogy. I came as the burial service was concluding. I stood far in the back of the thirty or so people that had come out to pay their last respects to this remarkable gentleman. I recognized Mrs. Rounsaville in the crowd, and also Miss Nettie was there in her finest Sunday hat. After the service when everyone had gone their way I walked up to the gravesite. Freshly dug red dirt still moist from the earth awaited the shovel of the grave digger to cover the simple pine casket. Little did that soil know that it could never cover a legend. A legend indeed as I read the names inscribed on the numerous floral wreathes surrounding the open grave. Names like B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, Elvis A. Presley, Eric Clapton. I went back to my car and retrieved the pint of Jack Daniels that I brought from Hattiesburg. I stood above his grave, opened the bottle and took a sip, then poured the remainder into the final resting place of my new friend.
I made it back home late that evening and slept until late Sunday morning. I spent most of Sunday evening listening to ‘Sonny Boy’s music. I had lost a friend. I considered myself blessed to have known him.
As I readied for work the next morning, I heard a knock on the front door. UPS had delivered a large package and set it on my front porch. A letter came with the delivery. It was from Mrs. Jake Rounsaville. It read, “Mr. Jacobs, before Mr. Ray passed away, he made it very clear to the attending nurse that he wanted you to have this. I am not sure of its worth, but I think it only proper to send it to you. You can certainly do with it as you please.” Sincerely, Mrs. Jake Rounsaville, Charge Nurse, Glen Oaks Nursing Home.
As I opened the large package, I realized I was staring at what I once wished that I could only hold. It had an Adirondack spruce top with scalloped braces, a Mahogany back and sides, and a Brazilian Rosewood fingerboard and bridge. It was ‘Sweetness’. It was high cotton indeed... 'Oh you pick cotton fifty cent a day, tote that cotton that's what I say...what I see when I look down...ain't no money in this ground'.