Ben says. “He won’t give up nothin’ to nobody ‘less he get what he want. But he a good man.”
“A good businessman, sure.” Bollinger bends down for a face to face with Ben. He clutches Ben’s wrist and says, “But you don’t mind the money for tonight was transferred to his account in Jackson?”
Which explains why he brought up Mabry in the first place. Most people think he’s ripping us off, Mabry, which is expected from managers, but made even more mean in our case because he’s a brother. Though Mabry is the name on Ben’s birth certificate, he’s as much a fictional character as Uncle Remus or Bigger Thomas. Ben thinks our dependence upon him makes us seem even more pathetic, which he uses to his advantage. Bollinger’s present gesture seems gracious, though his schemes to acquire some object of ours for his wall are shameless, and he has no clue that the man he’s talking to with such admiration and deference is also the scoundrel he mistrusts and couldn’t agree to terms with all those years ago. Kind of funny, you ask me.
Ben says, “Doan you worry none. Mr. Mabry, he take good care of us. Ain’t that right, Sam?”
I nod, stick my harp in front of my mouth and play, “Take Your Hand Out of My Pocket,” to warm up, watching to see if Bollinger knows the tune. He stares at Ben, nods, then backs away. I look toward the audience again and note their restlessness as well as their uniform lack of anything that signals we’ll be among devotees of Delta blues. A team of security guards takes up places before the stage, and I’m pleased that of the six, two are black, ensuring there will be four living African Americans present in this building constructed in part to honor the musical contributions we’ve made to this great nation of ours.
•••
Eight months is a long time to go without playing with your partner. Still, after we hit the stage—no James Brown-length intro, just Ben’s backwoods one liner about smoking dynamite and drinking TNT to explain the lack of a warm up act—I feel I’m in the one place in the world I belong. I don’t expect us to sound as good as when we were bringing last year’s tour to a close, when our hearts practically beat the same time. But Ben hasn’t varied his set list since I came on, and we catch up with one another like old friends who know each other’s stories. Anyway, I’m not here to draw much attention. No Blues Blaster amplified glissandos from these ten holes. I’m here for sweetening, my harp like Henry Sims’s fiddle for Charley Patton or Washboard Sam with Bukka White. I echo his turnarounds, punctuate a phrase or two, shape train sounds, and on “Back to Jackson” and “Mind Me Woman,” rip solos you can time with a second hand.
About six songs in, my lips stop tingling and I’m feeling good. After a dozen, I’m sweaty under the lights, my G harp warm in my hands and my eyes shut with the effort of so many concentrated breaths. Meanwhile Ben slides that brass pipe on his pinkie over the strings, syncopated, sharp and stinging. Every backstage glance at Bollinger reveals a man clapping his hands together in ecstasy, but the Las Vegas Jump and Jive Juke Joint’s first concert is lost on the people who’ve paid to be here. Most look on as if they know they should be respectful, but that doesn’t jibe with what they consider blues, a soundtrack to beer-drinking and shaking your ass. Maybe they think since Ben’s seated in his padded folding chair, his skinny body hunched over his guitar, they should also stay in their chairs. They perk up when we play “Leavin’ on My Mind,” likely because they recognize the opening riff as similar to “Sweet Home Chicago.” When we start “Mind Me Woman,” I’m glad we play no encores. With this dead ass crowd I want to get back to the hotel soon.
Still, we need to get our first performance out of the way, so we’ll be better off and ready for the next. Since Ben doesn’t tell stories between songs—he’s all music—we’re some three numbers away from the finale. After some tepid applause, I hear someone yelling a request. I always hear such voices clearest, the rare ones belonging to those who feel we haven’t done enough and that they have the right to demand more. The only album Ben and I did together, Blues At Your Request, contained one original, “Take My Chance,” while the rest were covers we were always asked to play, like “Stones in My Passway,” “Death Letter Blues” and “Bottle Up and Go.” No such requests are hollered now by this fool, who sounds like a victim of the bar’s concoctions. With names like “Rattler Juice” and “Swampwater,” they all contain at least three liquors and cost ten or twelve bucks apiece.
But fuck if he’s not hollering for “Soul Man.” The Sam & Dave version is smoking, you ask me. The one Belushi and Ackroyd did featured some of the same Memphis players like Steve Cropper and Duck Dunn. I even know the words, having performed this song at least a dozen times in bars and frat houses for drunken white boys who played air guitar and jumped behind a mic to sing along. Now my contacts shift and settle into place over my irises as I try to locate the body attached to the voice in the crowd. Everyone’s dressed alike, so it takes a few minutes to spot him. Wearing Bermudas, a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, he’s clutching a sloshing glass the size of a goldfish bowl. His other hand’s cupped against his mouth for amplification, and the people around him seem more amused than annoyed. Security’s keeping an eye on the relics that decorate the walls. Ben counts down to “Take My Chance,” but it’s no use. Already other elements of the crowd have caught this bug and they’re chanting “Soul Man.” I can barely hear Ben’s voice over the din and at one point put down my harp and glare at Bollinger, who stands in the wings backstage, hands jammed in his pockets. Applause accompanies the increasingly louder chants of “Soul Man.” When he closes out “Take My Chance,” Ben shakes his head. “Time to go,” he says, even though we’re one song short. We bow and make our exit in time to hear the boos.
•••
Bollinger stands between us and the performer’s exit, wiping his bald head. “I’m so sorry,” he says, backing up as we bypass the dressing room. “I thought we’d have the right kind of crowd, but . . .”
“Ain’t yo’ fault, suh,” Ben says, stooped but purposeful, holding his guitar by the neck. I’m behind him, carrying his empty case.
“But you’ll come back again, won’t you? Vegas is still new to what you both do. But it’ll catch on.” Bollinger looks behind him. With a few feet between his backside and the door, he stops. His hands come up before him and he’s smiling.
“Might not be no next time,” Ben says. I turn to look at him, but he winks, a sign it’s all just talk.
“You’ll tour again,” Bollinger says, his voice pitching higher. “And when you do, can’t you at least think about coming back?”
“You kin call Mr. Mabry,” Ben says. “But after I talks to him I doan think he be sendin’ us here no mo’.”
Bollinger reaches out and his hand rests against the neck of Ben’s guitar. He doesn’t flinch, as would anyone who’d heard what happened to Elvin Bishop when he grabbed Ben’s guitar. Instead, Bollinger stands there smiling. Now he says, “Again, I’m sorry.” He pauses, one hand fondling the guitar’s headstock, a Sharpie clutched in the other. “Could you perhaps leave us something to remember you by?”
I step closer and mumble, “Better open that do’, Mr. Bollinger.”
Ben’s picking fingers find my wrist and clamp. The strength in them shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. He wants me to keep cool. So I do for now. “You gon have to wait on that,” Ben says, gently pulling the guitar out of Bollinger’s grip. “Mebbe when I die you kin ask Sam for this here glass eye of mine. I plans to donate it to him in my will.” He blinks and somehow manages to keep the pupil of his right eye fixed while the left eye fidgets about. Bollinger’s hands rise slowly to his mouth. I can’t tell if the gesture’s from shock or if he’s determining
