A tribute to Johnny Winter by Mark Ellis.
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We were all discovering the blues, we American white kids caught up in the British Invasion.
Hearing the Rolling Stones’ “Confessin’ the Blues” and the Animals cover “Boom, Boom” hit us up with a fast education: this was black music. Soon Eric Clapton would up the ante, and be declared God.
Suddenly, Albert King’s epic “Blues Power” became a different kind of anthem, the source groove that so many of our British idols—the Stones and the Animals most specifically–had ridden to the top of the charts.
It became common at Bill Graham’s early shows to find African-American blues performers on the bill with the big 60s and 70s names that Graham knew would fill the house. You’d get shows with Foghat at the top, Albert King in the second slot, and maybe Hot Tuna opening. You’d get Ike and Tina Turner lighting a torch for Humble Pie.
When B.B. King hit on all cylinders with “The Thrill is Gone,” he became his own crossover headliner; before that you might find him romancing Lucille as prelude to Anglo-blues mainstays like Savoy Brown or early Fleetwood Mac.
After the niche-packaging of rock gained hegemony, those kinds of shows all but disappeared.
Into the late-sixties high-water mark of the blues resurgence Johnny Winter dropped like a netherworld messenger.
From tough Texas roadhouses came the lithe and half-blind albino, who, while never accelerating past the core roots of the music, proceeded to shred the form as it had never been shred before.
He died on July 16th at age 70, amazingly while still touring.
♦◊♦
I remember when his first Columbia album, 1969’s Johnny Winter, begin to appear in high-school hallways and college dorms. Winter’s apparition-white hair and razor virtuosity seared blues rock consciousness like a Panhandle prairie fire. On tracks like “Mean Town Blues” he raised that consciousness to a level that has seen no equal.
When Second Winter hit later that year, Winter became a monster draw. His slide guitar-dominated cover of Dylan’s “Highway 61” scorched ears along that venerable road.
The arena circuit beckoned, and maestro Johnny was up to it. Pairing with guitar wiz and former “Hang on Sloopy” purveyor Rick Derringer, he hit the big venues with Johnny Winter And.
On the Derringer-penned “Rock And Roll Hootchie-Koo” the band catapulted forms pioneered by Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker into realms of stadium hard-rock that characterize the genre to this day.
But however deeply into pounding rock Winter went, he remained true to the blues, and could always be counted on to return to the 12-bar upon which his signature style is instantly identifiable.
By the time of Winter’s phenomenal debut, records by artists like Jimmy Reed, Little Walter, Bo Diddley, Howlin’ Wolf and many others had become part of the collections of young music fans who had discovered the wellspring of rock-and-roll. Winter, who would go on to appear at Woodstock, was as authentic as any of them.
The last time I saw Johnny Winter was sometime in the early nineties at Portland, OR’s Roseland Theater. He had slowed down quite a bit; his addictions and health problems related to albinism were well-documented. Much of the performance was delivered from a center-stage chair, though he did stand for a few of the more pulsating blues turns.
My most vivid memory is from a 1971 Bill Graham Fillmore West headline slot with Johnny Winter And.
During the break before JWA’s appearance, fans had been tossing a large beach ball around in a Bacchanalian game of volleyball. When Winter and company touched-down with his blistering rendition of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” the ball stayed aloft, moving ever closer to where Winter stood powering-out the opening chords.
Someone in the crowd got off a championship shot, and the ball flew toward the stage. Before it landed Winter gave it a good kick with one of his high-stepping boots.
Winter hit the ball just right and it went flying, straight up and out, accompanied by an appreciative roar that could be heard over the slashing riff-work and rumbling bottom.
If there had been goalposts, we’re talking game-winner, all the way, from the ass-kickingest blues rocker that ever lived.
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Photo Credit: (AP Photo/The Repository, Bob Rossiter) In this Friday, June 19, 2009 file photo, Johnny Winter plays during the Canton Blues Festival 2009 in downtown Canton, Ohio. Texas blues icon Johnny Winter, who rose to fame in the late 1960s and ’70s with his energetic performances and recordings that included producing his childhood hero Muddy Waters, died in Zurich, Switzerland on Wednesday, July 16, 2014. He was 70.
ELLIS KNOWS HIIS MUSIC AND HE CAN WRITE, FROM HIS GOOD- BYE TO MARSHALL DILLON TO HIS FAREWELL TO JOHNNY WINTER. HE’S A JOY TO READ.
Someone in the crowd got off a championship shot, and the ball flew toward the stage. Before it landed Winter gave it a good kick with one of his high-stepping boots.
Winter hit the ball just right and it went flying, straight up and out, accompanied by an appreciative roar that could be heard over the slashing riff-work and rumbling bottom.
made me smile so wide.
a cool read