UNCOVERING
SOUTHERN SOUL POWER
aka
THE "CHITLIN' CIRCUIT"
by
Preston Lauterbach
The
seven-piece band clad in matching plaid suits with three-quarter-length
boxback jackets looks like a doo-wop group that might pimp a little
on the side. The trumpet, trombone, and sax players blow and point
their horns skyward. They blast the first note. The organist holds
his down. The drummer patters the cymbal like a rainstorm. The emcee
commands the crowd to put its hands together. They do, though it's
hard to hear. The singer strides onstage from behind the curtain,
a glittering gold boot on one foot, a silvery one on the other. His
black velvet suit glints with rhinestones. The glitter spreads out
to diamond-clustered fingers. All of them. His curls glisten down
and tickle his shoulders. The drenching sweat completes the effect
of total incandescence. A shriek goes up, and a small legion of big
women rush the stage with arms raised and open like they"re chasing
a bridal bouquet. This is the chitlin' circuit.
The
"chitlin' circuit" sounds like something that's gone, and
with good reason. After all, the name itself derives from the "soul
food" of chitterlings (fried pig intestines) that was a staple
at early performances. But from CC Blues Club on Thomas Street to
the Cannon Center downtown, thousands of Memphis music fans flock
to hear stars like Marvin Sease and Bobby Rush sing what's too risqué
for radio play, and to watch dancers shake what's too big for TV.
That's both the beauty of the chitlin' circuit and the reason for
its survival. While its roots run back to racial segregation, it thrives
today because performers give audiences what they can't get through
mainstream media. It's called "grown folks music," and it's
all in the name of the blues.
"Not
even a category for what we do."
The
typical show features multiple acts, including artists known to fans
as "Candylicker," "The Stand Up In It Man," and
"The Bad Boy of Southern Soul." Most acts go revue-style
with horn sections, synthesizers, and choreography added to the bass,
guitar, and drums. In March 2006, a "Blues Bash" at the
Cannon Center offered a little something for everyone. Sir Charles
Jones, a singer in his twenties, frenzied the young ladies with his
new song "Drop That Thang." Shirley Brown, whose career
began with Stax in the Seventies, slow-rolled the crowd with her latest,
"I Got to Sleep With One Eye Open," an ode to her insatiable
man. Bobby Rush, a performer of indeterminate age and interminable
vim, strutted the stage singing his newest hit in a 40-year recording
career, "Night Fishin,"" a ditty minimally concerned
with angling, despite the title.
Meanwhile,
an old friend recognized the night's headliner backstage. "Marvin,"
she asked, "You remember me from Club Paradise?"
Marvin
Sease, known as "Candylicker" and "Motel Lover"
after his hit song titles, smiled and nodded. As
the woman passed by, the nod became a shudder. He rolled his eyes,
and explained a dilemma of working the circuit.
"You
got people on the mainstream -- you see this crowd today? -- that
just don"t think we draw the kind of numbers that we do,"
he said. "They're dead wrong. Right now, we're doing as good
or better than some of the mainstream acts are doing. We just are
not being recognized. There ain't even a category for what we do.
We're considered blues singers, but we're really not all downhome
blues singers. I would rather be classified as a soul, rhythm and
blues singer. The new trend they got now, they're calling us Southern
soul, but I do 30 to 40 percent of my shows out east and up north.
How can you consider me a Southern singer?"
The
chitlin" circuit audience embodies the term "all ages."
Like the artists on the bill, the grown folks in the seats range from
young adults to senior citizens.
"I
think I draw a tremendous amount of young people," Sease said.
"They say, "Oh, this is the blues, I didn"t know the
blues sounded like that."" Decked out in snakeskin boots,
billowing rayon blouses, leopard-print dresses, pink pleated pants,
and a variety of hats, the grown folks differ from what other blues
fans look like, too. None of the Hawaiian shirt, sandal/sock
combos one glimpses at the blues festivals in Clarksdale , Mississippi
, or Helena , Arkansas . Memphis Mayor Willie Herenton is a regular,
and most of the audience is of his generation.
Grown
folks" lyrics deal with romantic themes. Heroes like Johnnie
Taylor sang to the working man's fears and insecurities. His 1971
hit "Jody's Got Your Girl and Gone" brought back a folk
anti-hero, Jody, from the WWII era. While the soldiers fought and
died overseas, Jody stayed behind in what was derisively labeled the
"home guard." Listen to Taylor 's "Jody" now,
and you"ll notice the distinct march cadence in the chorus: "Ain't
no use in going home, Jody's got your girl and gone." Jody pops
up in more songs than John Henry and the steam shovel. Marvin Sease
slips into the character in "Candylicker" and "I"m
Mr. Jody," Bobby Rush sings his praises in "Wearing It Out,"
and Mr. David warns, "Jody's Creeping." A singer named Ms.
Jody has recently come on the scene, courtesy of Memphis ' own Ecko
Records, to provide a fairer perspective.
Bobby
Rush (a stage name, pronounced as one word) has thrilled audiences
with his "folk funk" branded wit and a dance troupe that
would stir up Sir Mix-A-Lot. Unlike many of his circuit peers, he
has courted the separate black and white blues audiences, attempting
to satisfy both, while remaining true to his mantra of "crossover,
not cross out." More than any other artist working the circuit
today, Rush exemplifies a legacy in black entertainment. Growing up
in Arkansas in the Forties and Fifties, his most profound influence
was Arkansan Louis Jordan, whose vibrant showmanship and clever lyrics
broke the musical mold of the big band era. Like Jordan , Rush evokes
rural imagery in his songs, and more often than not ends up the butt
of his own jokes.
"What
I do is a black thing," he said. "At the beginning of B.B.
King's career it never crossed his mind that there was gonna be a
white audience today. He was just doing like I am now. Do what you
do for the audience that will listen to you."
What
he does on stage is "almost like two lovers watching an X-rated
movie. I sell myself to the lady that's into me, who wishes she had
me. Then I put the dancing girls on stage, where the men can say,
"Baby, I wish that was you." My whole thing is about a story
and a dialogue from the time I walk out on stage until the time I
leave," he said. "Everything is thought out thoroughly."
Right down to the costume changes, talking booty, and giant panties.
Off
stage, the devoted grandfather and community activist strives to cross
over to a white audience. He released a traditional blues album in
2004 featuring acoustic guitar and unplugged harmonica, with a faux
folk art cover to appeal to the white scene, and simultaneously issued
a record for black listeners replete with synth drums and tales of
two-timing. He figured prominently in the 2003 Year of the Blues celebration,
including his featured performance in the Martin Scorsese film series
dedicated to the music. The visibility failed to boost sales for Rush's
white album, and though there are plenty of dollars to be had on the
chitlin' circuit, at the age of at least 65, Rush is thinking about
his legacy.
"What
Muddy Waters did, what Howlin" Wolf did, I think everything that
crossed over that white guys are doing now was a black thing,"
he said. "I'll get my proper due. History will say I crossed
over but didn"t have to change anything." He hopes. Despite
his decades of popularity with a multigenerational
black
fan base, there's no guarantee of his entry into the pantheon of blues
heroes.
The
chitlin' circuit doesn"t perpetuate legends like Robert Johnson,
Muddy Waters, and Howlin' Wolf. It generates little print media. Most
circuit CD sales take place in independent "mom and pop"
record shops that don"t employ SoundScan technology to tabulate
sales. Billboard bases its influential record charts on
SoundScan data. That, coupled with Sease's observation about the difficulty
of categorizing chitlin' circuit music, translates into only rare
appearances on Billboard charts for circuit artists, and,
therefore, very little recognition from mainstream music outlets.
The
upside is the degree of artistic independence that performers enjoy.
Songs explore the perils of middle age rather than reflect youthful
pop culture. The audience is stable, dedicated, and multigenerational.
While the star system prevails on the circuit as elsewhere in entertainment,
the competition isn't as fierce as in mainstream music. Subsequently,
the audience isn't as fickle as mainstream audiences.
Rodgers
Redding of Macon, Georgia, books virtually every chitlin' circuit
act and has done so for nearly three decades. Artists, of course,
field their own booking calls as well, mostly from smaller clubs,
but Redding is the only agent capable of assembling the multi-act
package deals that bring thousands of spectators and their dollars.
Since relatively few artists work the circuit today, lineups are built
to accumulate fans of different artists. A network of local concert
promoters across the South and in some big cities outside the region,
DJs, talent managers, and indie record label
owners
organize the shows, rent out halls, negotiate lump-sum deals with
the talent, and keep whatever remains of the gate receipts after paying
everyone. The phrase "fly by night" comes to mind.
The
vending scene is as lively as the stage. Another refreshing aspect
of the circuit is the proximity of artists to their fans. After the
performers do their thing, they head to the lobby. There the artists"
staffs set up airbrushed sheets displaying names, likenesses, and
other evocative imagery as photo backdrops. Fans pay $10 to pose with
their favorite singer for an autographed Polaroid. As in other categories
of chitlin' circuitry, Sease distinguishes himself in the vending
enterprise. In addition to the standard photo ops, Sease's band hawks
CDs and DVDs. Bumper stickers, T-shirts, and satin jackets emblazoned
with song titles all help keep the Candylicker franchise afloat.
It's
hard to pin a date on when the chitlin" circuit began, but 1946
was a boom year in the black entertainment business. African-American
entrepreneurs all over Memphis imported big-name traveling acts. Robert
Henry began booking shows at the Beale Avenue Auditorium. Bob Wright
and his son William booked the Hotel Improvement Club and the Brown
Derby, while Oliver Prince managed the Bungalow Inn. Andrew "Sunbeam"
Mitchell had leased the third-floor space above Abe Plough's Pantaze
Drug Store at the corner of Hernando and Beale. Most importantly,
black troops returned to the Mid-South from the war with full pockets.
Historically,
as much of the chitlin' circuit enterprise was black-run as it was
black-owned. Anunsubstantiated rumor has it that Abe Plough provided
Sunbeam Mitchell silent partnership. It wouldn't have been out of
character for the philanthropist known as "Mr. Anonymous"
to help a neighbor. In addition to the possible Mitchell-Plough connection,
Kemmons Wilson joined the investment group that built the W.C. Handy
Theatre in 1946.
Sunbeam
Mitchell embodies the post-WWII chitlin' circuit enterprise. Born
in 1906 in Memphis , Mitchell ran nightclubs for 40 years until selling
off his holdings four years prior to his death in 1989. He opened
the Mitchell Hotel above Pantaze's in 1944, and shortly thereafter
started his first nightclub, the Domino Lounge, on the building's
second floor. Mitchell also ran the Hippodrome, an R&B club at
500 Beale in the early "50s, later renaming it Club Ebony. He
sponsored dances at larger halls like Ellis
Auditorium,
where Ray Charles performed August 20, 1961 . In addition to his nightclubs,
a hotel, and a grill, Sunbeam operated Mitchell Amusement Enterprises
in the middle to late '50s, booking dates for Little Milton Campbell
and Lowell Fulson. A record label, Paradise Records, was conceived
years later, though it doesn't seem to have gone far.
Like
a housewife quick with a handout for a hobo, Mitchell earned a reputation
for generosity among traveling musicians. As he recalled in a 1981
chat with a Press-Scimitar reporter, "Little Richard
stayed at the hotel for weeks when he didn't have any money."
Sunbeam and wife Ernestine, of Ernestine and Hazel's, sustained many
a starving artist on their chili. "All of them knew they could
come to Memphis and be taken care of in those days," he said.
Little
Junior Parker, Bobby Bland, and B.B. King gigged regularly at Club
Handy. Ted Taylor, The Five Royales, Jimmy McCracklin, Al "TNT"
Braggs, Arthur Prysock, and other leading R&B outfits of the day
stopped in for one-nighters in the late Fifties. At Club Handy, Mitchell
employed, at various times, dancing girls called the Mitchellettes
and a house band. Club Handy also provided the setting for many of
Ernest Withers' iconic images of Memphis nightlife, including memorable
shots of Bland sweating it out on stage and a beaming Louis Jordan
posing with his diminutive old father out front.
By
the early '60s, Mitchell had witnessed the exodus of black businesses
from Beale, and planned accordingly. In a 1975 Commercial Appeal
article Mitchell recalled, "They were getting ready to
tear
things
down on Beale Street . Urban renewal was coming . . . . We had [Club
Paradise] before they even started that urban renewal . . . ."
Mitchell continued to run Club Handy on the side, but devoted most
of his attention to "the South's leading nite spot," the
3,200-seat Club Paradise at 645 E. Georgia Avenue. Opening night,
Sunday, March 21, 1965 , featured Bobby "Blue" Bland.
The
deterioration of the social circumstances that gave rise to the circuit
eventually cooled Sunbeam's business. He lamented to a Press-Scimitar
reporter in 1980, "When there was segregation, they didn"t
have any place to come out to but here." Integration hurt Sunbeam
when he was the only one enforcing it, and killed him when it got
out of his hands. Mitchell persisted, but Paradise went the way of
so many other high spots from the chitlin' circuit's heyday. vvWhat
remains are new chitlin" circuit
im-presarios
like Julius Lewis, founder and CEO of Memphis-based Heritage Entertainment.
Lewis exemplifies the way of doing circuit business following the
demise of the club scene. Lewis rents spaces and hosts shows in Memphis,
Tunica, Chicago, Dallas, and Atlanta.
"The
scene changes, but it remains strong."
Despite
the risks, the rewards are ample for the few who make it, like Sease.
"I remember way back in the local days when me and my band made
$200. And that wasn't per man, that was for the group. And I came
from that to a minimum of 10 to 12-5 [thousand dollars], so it made
a tremendous difference. It increased, but if you compare my little
10 or 12-5 to R. Kelly's 35 or 50, it reminds me I"m still working
the chitlin' circuit -- just on a higher scale." Like his enterprising
predecessors, Lewis created opportunity through resourcefulness. "In
college [at LeMoyne-Owen, class of '95] I had some extra money from
my student loans and I had always had an interest in doing a real
big concert. So I took my student loans, my partner Ricky Moore, he
gave me what he had, and we pawned TVs and had Ollie Nightingale,
Marvin Sease, and Bobby Rush and packed Club Paradise. The very first
show we did was August 5, 1995 . That was my thesis, as a matter of
fact, the whole production," he said.
American
idols, boy bands, and girl groups may come and go, but the chitlin'
circuit's grown folks music withstands the tests of time and style.
Preston
Lauterbach lives in Memphis, Tennessee with his wife and daughter
and writes full time for Memphis magazine and the Memphis Flyer.
Special thanks to Larry Chambers at Ecko
Records and Cato Walker III for their insights.
THANKS
MUCH to Preston. Reprinted with his permission.
JUSBLUESMUSIC.COM
