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The Greatest Blues Singer Of All Time Jon Nicholas
The Greatest Blues Singer of All
Time Jon Nicholas
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Mickey
Fagan and his best talent scout, J.P. Wilson, sat at their usual booth. The
Blue Note was a live blues bar and restaurant on the Southeast side of Chicago.
Mickey owned the club. It was 1:30 in the afternoon on a Friday. The place was
empty except for the two of them; a bartender; and the house band, backing up a
young singer who was auditioning for Mr. Fagan. It was understood in Chicago
that no one made it big in the blues circuit without first going through the
formidable Mickey Fagan. He knew how to find new talent and knew how to
capitalize on it. A large man, he filled half the booth with his 300-pound
frame; his cigar smoke and his talent scout filled the rest.
It was a
strange sight to see both men sitting completely still, not talking at all. The
young performer was singing through several blues standards and impressed the
hell out of Fagan and Wilson. The bartender certainly noticed the difference in
their demeanor. Hed seen them hold auditions countless times
they
usually talked so much it seemed they werent paying attention. Then
theyd stop the singer, say a few words about how nice he sounded, and
send him on his way.
Today, the two men were mesmerized.
Johnny
Summers was singing the blues. He held the microphone as if it was a priceless,
fragile heirloom. He appeared to revere it as if nothing was more important to
him. It seemed he was emptying his very soul into it, and with each phrase, the
small object was becoming more valuable.
Although no one could tell,
Johnny was actually having an out-of-body experience, watching himself perform
from above the stage. He was used to this phenomenon though; it always happened
whenever he sang the blues.
Mickey didnt dare speak. He
couldnt bring himself to interrupt the transferal of emotions taking
place from man to microphone. Hed never witnessed this kind of
performance. This was more than blues; it was blues with teeth. No
razor
blades. J.P. was right about this kid. Unbelievable. Money in the bank.
J.P. Wilson was quietly crying. Hed waited all his life to find
someone who could take the genre to the next level. His ship had come in. No
one could touch this kid. He would redefine, even reinvent the
blues.
Johnny Summers finished another song, returned to his body, and
looked out toward the booth where his jury sat. Why werent they saying
anything? He didnt really know what to expect though; this was his first
audition since hed arrived in Chicago a week ago. He saw movement from
the booth and then someone finally spoke.
Um, okay
then
J.P. cleared his throat a couple of times, then addressed the
band members. Great job guys. You can cut out. Mr. Summers, wed
like to talk with you. With butterflies raging a war in his gut, Johnny
crossed the room to the smoke-enshrouded booth. Maybe this was the moment
hed hoped for since he fell in love with the blues at age 13. Would he
sign a contract after his very first audition? Was he that good?
Mr. Summers! Pull up a chair, boy! It was *the* Mickey
Fagan! He couldnt believe he was actually going to be sitting with Fagan
and Wilson! Before he could sit down, a teenage boy ran up to the table,
dropped off a manila envelope, and dashed out. If you dont mind,
Johnny, we need to take care of some urgent business. Why dont you head
to the bar and have a beer. Its on the house. Well be right with
you. And hey, dont go anywhere, okay? We definitely need to
talk.
Johnny went to the bar. His butterfly war raged
on.
Is this the background report? The one on Mr.
Summers? Yes. Sorry its late. Something about having to
dig deeper than usual. I havent had the chance to talk to my man, but
lets see what he could dig up on our young phenom, Mr. Johnny
Summers.
J.P. emptied the envelope on the table and picked up a
sheet of paper. Mickey waited. Shit. J.P. said, his face going
sour. What do you mean, shit? Youre
not going to fucking believe this! Dont tell me the
kids in trouble with the law. No, Mickey, its
weird. Really weird. It says our young man had a normal, healthy childhood,
Mick. It looks like this kids had the silver spoon his whole damn life.
Listen to this! He grew up in Sarasota, Florida. Sarasota! Two loving parents.
Upper-class neighborhood. J.P. scanned further. He was a fucking
honor student, for god sakes. This cant be right.
Youre goddamn right it cant be right! No one sings the
blues without living it. Are you telling me that this 24 year old brat sitting
at my bar and drinking my beer, just out-sang every fucking blues singer to
come out of Chicago in the last 50 years, and hes from Sara-fucking-sota?
J.P. didnt answer. He was still poring over the report his
investigator had prepared for him after hed heard Johnny singing at
Open-Mike-Nite, a weekly, anyone-can-sing event at the club. Hed watched
Johnny as he proceeded to wrap the whole place around his little finger. By the
time hed made it through the first chorus of Walk A Mile in My Shoes,
everyone in the place knew theyd witnessed history in the making. Now
J.P. could feel his dream slipping away as he read page after page of
squeaky-clean background information on the kid. He was even a licensed,
clinical psychologist. Could things be any worse? He wouldnt even mention
the psychology tidbit to Mickey. No reason to throw gasoline on the fire. How
could this have happened? No one sings the blues without living it. Its
always been that way. Always.
Well, this has to be resolved, J.P.
Get him back over here. Lets find out if your man screwed
up.
Johnny finished his beer and saw J.P. waving him to the booth
again. He was ready to do business now that his butterflies were enjoying some
Samuel Adams. However, the two men seemed different somehow
less excited
than before.
Sit down, Johnny. J.P. said. We need to
ask you some questions. All right. Johnny tried to see
through the blue cloud. Was Mr. Fagan angry? Where did you grow up?
Tell us about your childhood
your parents
your education. That
sort of thing. Johnny Summers proceeded to tell the two men all about
his past. The problem was, it was the same past as the one in the
investigators report. He was for real. An absolute paradox was sitting at
their table. A happy man who could sing the blues
and sing it better
than anyone else. He could easily make a mockery of the genre if the media
found out about him.
Both men were putting it all together as they
listened to this happy-go-lucky young man lay his pathetic, little life before
them. They could see the immanent interviews on the talk show circuit; the
feature articles in Rolling Stone; the documentaries; the movies. The Blues
would never be perceived the same way again. Anybody, anywhere, could be a
blues singer
Johnny Summers proved it.
Mickey interrupted the
kid. Im going to ask you another question, Mr. Summers. I want you
to consider your answer carefully. Yes sir. Okay. Johnny
was shaken by the forcefulness of Mr. Fagans tone. The large man took
a long draw on his cigar. The pause effectively added weight to what he was
about to say. Johnny swallowed. Would you ever consider getting out of
the blues arena? Seriously, Mr. Summers. Rock and roll
country
some other type? Youve got talent, kid. Why sing the blues, anyway?
Theres a lot more money outside of Chicago.
What? Was he
hearing this correctly? What was Mr. Fagan getting at? It must be a test! J.P.
chimed in before he could answer. Johnny. Think hard. We have to know
where you stand. If we told you we could make you rich and famous as a rock
singer, would you be willing to give up singing the blues? These
questions were like hot knives, stabbing him from all sides. Sing rock and
roll? They had to be kidding. It was a test. It had to be a test. He was
deciding how to answer without offending them when Mickey leaned in again;
smoke billowing around his chubby face. Well?
Johnny decided
the best approach was the direct approach. Im not sure why
youre asking me about all this, but I only know I want to sing the blues.
Rock and country dont do it for me and Im not in this just for
money
I dont think I could ever be happy if I wasnt singing
what I feel in my bones. The blues. My answer is no, Mr. Fagan, I
would not consider getting out of the blues. You can trust me on that. I
sometimes think I couldnt live without it
J.P. reached into
his jacket pocket and pulled out a contract. He pushed it toward Johnny and
then handed him a pen. You can take a few minutes to read this over if
you like. Sign it; then well arrange a meeting to get you hooked up with
some topnotch musicians. Youll be headlining at the biggest clubs in
town.
Whew! Johnny scanned the contract. Everything looked right.
He signed before the dream could end.
Ill be calling you as
soon as I check my schedule. I suggest you go out and celebrate, Mr. Summers
youve just signed the Holy Grail of blues contracts. He
escorted Johnny to the door; they shook hands, and he watched him leave.
Once back at the booth, J.P. wanted to know why Mickey had given him
the signal to present the contract. I dont get it, Mick. We
cant let this kid play the club circuit. As soon as his background info
makes it to the press, well be finished in this city. All the great blues
artists will think were stabbing them in the backs. How many times have
you heard the blues rule recited to the press? Every blues star makes a point
of saying it
You gotta live the blues to sing the blues. Johnny Summers
will break that rule every time he opens his mouth to sing!
Calm down, J.P. Mickey relit his cigar. He seemed quite
relaxed. Everythings going to work out fine. Trust me.
* * *
Johnny showed up for the big meeting two days later. It
was at Fagans offices a few blocks from The Blue Note. J.P. wasnt
there. Instead, it was Mr. Fagan and another man hed not met before. He
was told to have a seat at a table. A piece of paper was placed in front of
him. Johnny read it: No one sings the blues without living the blues.
A
pop and a burning sensation in the back of his head, were the last two things
Johnny Summers, the greatest blues singer of all time, experienced in his
short, happy life.
End.
Copyright © 2001 Jon Nicholas
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Copyright © 2001 Jon Nicholas
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