The 500 - #154 - Moanin' at the Moonlight - Howlin' Wolf

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #154
Album Title: Moanin' at the Moonlight

Artist: Howlin' Wolf

Genre: Chicago Blues, Electric Blues

Recorded: Wessex & Air Studios, London, England

Released: July, 1959

My age at release: Not born
How familiar was I with it before this week: Some

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #477, dropping 322 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Smoke Stack Lightning

As I continue this blog series counting down through Rolling Stone magazine’s 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, I still have 153 records left to bring to your attention. Among them are more than 20 albums by artists who were directly shaped by the raw power and deep soul of Howlin’ Wolf -- born Chester Arthur Burnett. In fact, when you scan the full list of 500, nearly 50 albums bear the unmistakable imprint of this American blues legend, whether through direct influence, stylistic echoes, or heartfelt homage. His growling voice, electrifying guitar, and wailing harmonica didn’t just define Chicago blues -- they helped lay the foundation for rock and roll, especially the rise of British rock in the late ‘60s.

As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, I went through a serious blues phase in my early 20s -- sparked by picking up Crossroads, the massive four-CD Eric Clapton box set. This was pre-internet, so my deep dive into the blues came through liner notes and CD rentals from places like The Software Library and the Western Store on my university campus in London, Ontario.

Before setting out on a solo road trip to Calgary, more than 3,200 kilometers from home, I made a handful of cassette tapes packed with blues tracks. Among them, a heavy dose of Howlin’ Wolf, much of it lifted from a CD I’d rented called The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions. This was a fortuitous choice. I later learned  this album was a significant piece of music history. It was one of the first true blues “super sessions”, pairing a towering blues legend with some of rock’s most revered second-generation players – Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Charlie Watts, and Bill Wyman. It wasn’t just a record; it was a bridge between eras, and it became part of my soundtrack on the open road.

I did not pick up that CD because I understood its legendary importance. It was just one of the half-dozen blues recordings available at those outlets. However, retroactively, I am learning to understand the gravitas of those sessions.

Imagine, if you will:

May 1970. The air inside Olympic Studios is thick with anticipation -- and cigarette smoke. Eric Clapton, already a guitar god, adjusts his amp with a flicker of nervous energy. Ringo Starr behind the drum kit, taps out a rhythm while engineers check levels. Although Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts are unavailable on the first day of recording, the room still buzzes with star power.

Then he arrives

Howlin’ Wolf -- six-foot-six, topping 300 pounds, and every inch a legend -- steps into the studio. Nearly 60, he carries the weight of the blues in his voice, his stance, his very presence. This isn’t just a recording session. It’s a summit. A seismic meeting of generations.

By his side is Hubert Sumlin, his longtime guitarist and musical shadow. He has been flown in at Clapton’s insistence after Chess Records initially balked at covering Sumlin's expenses. Clapton once said he’d give anything to play with Wolf. Now, guitar in hand, he watches his hero take the mic.

The room falls silent.

The tape rolls.

And history begins.

Clapton (left) with Wolf during those May, 1970 London recording sessions.

Moanin’ in the Moonlight is the second of two Howlin’ Wolf albums featured on Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums list. Though technically his debut LP, it’s a compilation of 12 singles released between 1951 and 1959. At its heart is Wolf’s most iconic track, Smoke Stack Lightning, a song inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame and widely hailed as one of the greatest blues recordings of all time. Its hypnotic riff and Wolf’s primal vocals have echoed through decades of music, appearing in films, commercials, and countless cover versions.

Many artists on The 500 list have reinterpreted it (The Grateful Dead, The Yardbirds) but one of my personal favorites is the version by Soundgarden, featured on their 1988 debut album Ultramega OK. Their take is gritty, distorted, and full of early grunge energy. Interestingly, while researching this post, I discovered that Chris Cornell later expressed regret about including the cover instead of an original track. (See below.)

Soundgarden's Chris Cornell in an interview about Ultramega OK. 

Howlin' Wolf died in 1975 at the age of 65, which is not surprising for such a large man. As a friend once commented about the relationship between longevity and size: "If you go to an old age home, you'll see a lot of 90-year-old smokers having an afternoon cocktail, but they are all tiny. You don't see a lot of former basketball players and NFL linemen shuffling about".

Howlin’ Wolf left behind a treasure trove of blues recordings -- gritty, powerful, and timeless. His influence echoes through the music of today. And as we head into the final 150 albums on this list, we’ll hear the unmistakable sound of his legacy carried forward by the likes of Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Cream, and The Rolling Stones. These artists didn’t just admire Wolf; they built their sound on the foundation he laid. Their legacy has inspired the current generation of artists, including The White Stripes, Alabama Shakes, St. Vincent, and The Black Keys.

The 500 - #216 - Go Bo Diddley - Bo Diddley

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #216
Album Title: Go Bo Diddley
Artist: Bo Diddley
Genre: Early Rock and Roll
Recorded: Checker Records - March, 1955 & September, 1958

Released:  July, 1959 
My age at release: Not born
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #455, dropping 238 places
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Say Man

I have lost count of the number of concerts and live events I have attended due to the foresight and generosity of my friend, Steve “Lumpy” Sullivan. Some readers of this blog series will remember Steve as a guest writer for album #417, Boy, from U2, and #345, Stop Making Sense, from Talking Heads. He’ll be back again soon to contribute.

Steve (right) with his favourite comedian, Doug Stanhope.

Courtesy of Steve, I’ve attended the Just For Laughs Festival in Montreal; sat in a luxury box, enjoying unlimited food and beer at a Bob Dylan and Foo Fighters performance in London, Ontario; and watched Wrestlemania 18 from the front row. 

We actually had 2nd row seats, but the people in front of us 
did not show and we moved up.

That’s right. I sat ringside and witnessed The Rock defeat Hulk Hogan while more than 68,000 people looked on from behind me in Toronto’s Skydome (now Rogers Centre).

Poster for Wrestlemania 18.

Meanwhile, Steve has used his entertainment industry know-how to arrange for my wife, Angela, and I to meet the Blue Jays on the field before watching their game against the Chicago White Sox next month. His largesse is seemingly boundless.

The Blue Jays face the White Sox May 19 - 22.

In July, 2001, he secured tickets for us to see comedy legends Joan Rivers and Don Rickles perform at the Hummingbird Centre (now Meridian Hall) in Toronto. I have been a fan of Rickles since the ‘70s when I first witnessed his acerbic, insult-based wit on The Tonight Show and Dean Martin’s Celebrity Roast.

Rickles mugging to the audience on Dean Martin's
Celebrity Roast - 1970s.

In preparation for this post, I rewatched several episodes of “The Roast” on YouTube. I realize now that most of the jokes went over my pre-teen head. Regardless, there was something about the rhythm of comedic delivery and the idea of friendly tit-for-tat ridicule that gripped me.

Dean Martin Celebrity Roast.

My recollection of those verbal jousts was ignited while listening to Go Bo Diddley, the second studio record from legendary singer, guitarist and songwriter Bo Diddley. Diddley was born Ellas Otha Bates in Macomb, Mississippi, to the teen-aged daughter of a sharecropper. She and Ellas’ father, Eugene Bates, were unable to support a family, so the infant was raised by his mother’s cousin, Gussie McDaniel, who eventually adopted him.

A young Bo Diddley (1950s)

Gussie moved the family to the south side of Chicago in 1934 following the death of her husband who was, of course, five-year-old Diddley’s adoptive father. Active involvement in the Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church allowed the teen-age Diddley to learn trombone and violin. However, it was the joyful and rhythmic music he heard at the neighbourhood Pentecostal church and from local blues players that inspired him to take up the guitar.

Ebenezer Missionary Baptist Church in Chicago.

Music wasn’t the only rhythm that enthralled the young Diddley. He, like me, loved the cadence and flow of comedic beats and was particularly enamoured with insult humour. The sixth track on Go Bo Diddley is a three-minute ditty entitled Say Man – a song that became his biggest hit, reaching #20 on the Billboard Top 100.

Say Man single on Checker Records.

Say Man began as a rhythmic, instrumental jam session in the Checker studios. However, instead of singing, Diddley and his percussion player, Jerome Green, traded insults in a word game known as "The Dozens".

Green (lower) with Diddley.

The Dozens has its roots in African American communities where two participants exchanged increasingly severe barbs that delighted audiences and themselves. The poisoned arrows of combat attacked each opponent's intelligence, appearance, competency or social and financial status. Many times, members of the family were targeted – particularly each other’s mother –the lightning-fast retorts cringing, but hilarious.

The game goes by a plethora of names. It is called "blazing", "roasting", "hiking", "capping", "clowning", "ranking", "ragging", "rekking", "crumming", "sounding", "checking", "joning", "woofing", "wolfing", “skinning”, "sigging", "scoring", "signifying" and "jiving". The insults themselves are sometimes called "snaps".

There are multiple stories about the origin of the phrase “The Dozens”. Some authors believe it came from a now-forgotten English verb “to dozen” - which meant “to stun, stupefy or daze.” A darker history is suggested by Mona Lisa Soloy. The author and professor posits that the term arose from the New Orleans’ slave trade where mutilated captives (often disfigured by punishment for alleged disobedience) were grouped into lots of a “cheap dozen”.

A sketch depicting the ships used in the Atlantic Slave Trade.

When listening to the song Say Man it is easy to hear the delight in the voices of Diddley and Green as they exchange barbs, such as, “Your girl is so ugly, she has to sneak up on a glass of water to get a drink.” The Dozens work because both participants interact willingly in a display of friendly rivalry. Historian Harry Lefever wrote in a 1981 academic paper titled Playing The Dozens: A Mechanism For Social Control:

“In the deepest sense, the essence of "The Dozens" lies not in the insults but in the response of the victim. Taking umbrage is considered an infantile response. Maturity and sophistication bring the capability to suffer the vile talk with aplomb at least, and, hopefully, with grace and wit.”

Indeed, sociologists believe the game is viewed as a tool for preparing young African American men to cope with verbal abuse without becoming outraged. In the time before the Civil Rights movement (and, sadly, after) this was often a survival mechanism for black men.

Seeing Don Rickles and Joan Rivers perform in 2001 was a high point for me. Both performers perfected the art of the insult and, on that hot July evening, the audience were the beneficiaries. Thanks to Steve, I was there, too.

When I met Steve in 1993, it was our mutual love of comedy that made us click. Over the years, we have played our own variation of The Dozens, friends hurling contrived barbs at one another. The laughter we have shared binds our ever-deepening friendship. And that is no joke.

The 500 - #248 - The Shape Of Jazz To Come - Ornette Coleman

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by Los Angeles-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. 

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Album: #248
Album Title: The Shape Of Jazz To Come
Artist: Ornette Coleman
Genre: Free Jazz, Avant-Garde Jazz
Recorded: Radio Recorders, Hollywood, CA
Released: November, 1959
My age at release: Not born
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #417, down 169 spots from 248 since 2012
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Lonely Woman

As the 20th century girded for the hippies and the topsy turvy Swinging Sixties, the year 1959, marked a seismic shift in the world of jazz. In fact, In 2009, the British Broadcasting Company (BBC) released a one-hour documentary, entitled 1959: The Year That Changed Jazz. It focused on the changes happening to jazz music at the time and how the genre was impacted and influenced by societal change. It is available on YouTube and is well worth the watch.

Between August and November of that pivotal year, four monumental jazz records were released: Kind Of Blue by Miles Davis; Time Out from The Dave Brubeck Quartet; Mingus Ah Um by Charles Mingus; and this week's record, The Shape Of Jazz To Come, by Ornette Coleman.

Four of the important and influential jazz records released in 1959.

I knew the music of Brubeck and Davis and was familiar with some of Mingus’ work. Kind Of Blue was the first jazz compact disc I purchased on the recommendation of a long-forgotten university classmate. Not only is it a personal Top Twenty record for me, it sits at position #12 on The 500 list. Time Out from Dave Brubeck's Quartet is also a record I have owned. It features the well-known jazz standard Take Five, which became a hit single on pop record charts in the 1960s and remains the biggest selling jazz single of all time. If I was going to introduce someone to Jazz, those two records would be worthy examples of the genre and safe bets for the uninitiated.

Single for Take Five by Dave Brubeck Quartet

Ornette Coleman is new to me. I knew nothing about him or his music but was delighted to learn of his powerful impact. Coleman helped develop the sub-genre of avant-garde, or free, jazz which eschews established conventions that include tempo, tone and traditional chord changes. Converts to the emerging style believed more improvisation would enhance the sounds of bebop and modal jazz established in the 1940s and 1950s. Following a move to California in 1958, Coleman connected with like-minded musicians willing to embark on his spontaneous form of music-making, and his first album, Something Else, was released.

It is now lauded as groundbreaking, but was poorly received at the time, with critics calling it "freakishly structured" and "dissonant". Established jazz heavyweight Miles Davis even questioned Coleman's sanity and felt he was "all screwed up inside." Davis, like many others, would come around to the genius of Coleman.

Legendary jazz musician, Miles Davis.

I've been thinking a lot lately about improvisation and risk-taking. I am currently part of a community theatre group that is in the "dress-rehearsal" stage of our preparation for eight Autumn performances. Right now, each rehearsal is a full run-through. If a player makes a mistake, such as flubbing a line, he, or she, is expected to keep going, improvising as necessary to get the scene back on track.

Poster for the upcoming theatre production I am in.

On several occasions I have tripped up only to find the recovery is both terrifying and exhilarating – terrifying to realize your error, then exhilarating at an extemporaneous recovery. A bonus is the euphoric rush of endorphins at the end of the scene. Phew! I imagine Coleman and his bandmates felt much the same as they pushed their musical experiments to the limit.

Coleman (right) with one iteration of his quartet.

An interesting aside to this evolution in jazz is that the trumpet player who worked with Coleman for many years, including the recording of this record, was the legendary Don Cherry. (NOTE: not to be confused with the Canadian hockey broadcaster Don Cherry, -- although, the idea of the blunt, brash, politically-incorrect former hockey player playing free jazz trumpet in his garishly loud suits and high collars makes me chuckle).

Canadian former broadcaster Don Cherry

I discovered trumpeter Don Cherry in 1997 through the music of his son, Eagle-Eye Cherry, and his debut record Desireless.

Desireless, the debut record from Eagle-Eye Cherry (1997)

Years ago, I bought Eagle-Eye's compact disc for his hit song, Save Tonight, and my wife and I fell in love with the entire album. It includes the title track, Desireless, an extended performance built from a hauntingly beautiful trumpet motif showcased originally by his father on his 1973 free jazz record, Relativity Suite.

Relativity Suite, from Don Cherry (1973)

Coleman died in June, 2015, at the age of 85. His pioneering work is now revered among jazz critics and fans as groundbreaking and seminal. It turns out his improvisational experiment paid off and, during the final decades of his life, he was lauded by his peers. Honours included a Pulitzer Prize for Music and a Lifetime Grammy Award. In 2009, he was accorded the prestigious Miles Davis Award at the Montreal Jazz Festival. Not bad for someone who was once considered "screwed up inside.”