You must be patient if you’re a performer wanting to break onto the Chicago blues scene.  You can’t attempt to bulldoze your way onto a stage.  You must wait your turn to be invited to sit-in.  There is a decorum to this situation.  And, you only get one chance.  One chance to prove you belong.  And, you don’t want to be the unknown blues artist who introduces marginal talent from the stage.  The circle is small and tight, and if you show promise, other opportunities will likely unfold.  But, have your first-time on-stage result in an unfortunate effort, well, it becomes tenfold more difficult to be asked back. 

Nothing is more glaring than kicking-off a tune in the wrong key, singing out-of-tune, or showing-off to the detriment and disrespect of the host stage artist and band.  It is not your stage.  It is a place to be appreciated as a tool of growth and opportunity, a gauge of your to-date abilities, and certainly not your temporary greedy platform for self-promotion.  In a quote I once heard from Texas guitarist Jimmy Vaughan, his inference was that if you get on-stage and can’t perform, there’s a line of players just off-stage waiting for their chance to show what they’ve got. 

The blues world knew him as Magic Slim.  He was born Morris Holt in Mississippi in 1937.  For my money, there was no bluesman more representative of the tough urban Chicago blues sound.  He achieved esteemed status in the blues world from tireless playing, endless touring, and assembling bands best able to serve his blues visions.  Slim’s eventual success was won through hard work at his craft, labor that was rooted in the humbling initial missteps made early in his career. 

Slim’s first instrument-of-choice was piano.  Trying to imagine Slim at the piano is difficult for me, as his physical stature was imposing.  He was a man who should be out front and upright on-stage to make the most of his powerful stature and nature, not seated partially hidden from view.  That would seem to de-emphasize Slim’s powerful physique and presence.  Slim was a man who measured six and one-half feet tall.  And that’s without the ever-present hat.  Unfortunately, Slim lost the little finger on his dominant right hand in a cotton gin mishap, a fateful incident that precipitated his move toward the guitar.  To play the piano, ten fingers certainly works better than nine.  Nine can work with the guitar.  Out of bad luck eventually came the musical success Slim sought.  With the guitar.  But again, it did not come immediately.

One of Slim’s friends in his hometown of Grenada was the slightly older Sam Maghett, the man who would eventually cause great excitement in the blues world as Magic Sam, only to have his immense promise cut short by a fatal heart attack just as his star was rising in 1969.  Maghett’s dreams of his own blues success were big, and in 1955 he convinced Slim to move north with him to Chicago in an attempt to break into the blues industry.  Maghett had convinced Slim that playing bass with him the best move for his career at that point.

But Chicago proved to be a difficult testing ground for Slim, as he also tried to make it with his guitar work on a blues scene that was rife with excellent players, most much better than the sum of Slim’s abilities at that point.  They were already seasoned.  They had peer credibility.  With the blues competition just being too intense, Slim returned to his roots in Mississippi to work on his guitar playing.  During his time back home, he motivated his brother Nick into an interest in bass guitar.  And Douglas, his other brother, had a curiosity for drums.  Slim attempted to improve his skills in Mississippi by playing small affairs with his brothers, such as at parties and other get rural togethers. 

Slim wouldn’t return to Chicago for another ten years.  A full decade was spent in Mississippi refining his musical abilities.  He wanted to have his skills sharpened to such a degree as to not ever have to return to the deep south again.  He wanted success in the blues, and his drive would allow for nothing else.  He never wanted to feel the humiliation of failure again on the Chicago scene.  He wanted acceptance from the Chicago bluesmen.

Slim was bitten hard and deep by the dynamic Chicago blues scene during his first stint there, and as said, was firm that his return would be a one-way trip.  When he felt his skills had been sufficiently honed, he returned in 1965.  In tow, he brought Nick and Douglas in what would be the first aggregation of The Teardrops, the name he would forever use for the various assemblies of his band.  There was a concrete resolution in Slim’s mind that his Chicago return would not allow his then-stronger blues guitar skill set to be ignored. 

The mid-1960s was a time of change for the blues as young White British musicians were discovering this most unique of American music.  Blues was strongly influencing rock-n-roll.  But also, younger Blacks were turning away from the music they felt represented a shameful period of their culture.  Nonetheless, the blues was alive and still being deeply enjoyed by older Blacks, primarily in Chicago’s rough west and south side taverns.  These venues would be Slim’s Chicago blues proving grounds. 

Florence’s Lounge & Liquors was located on Chicago’s south side in the 5400 block of S. Shields Ave.  The place presented blues, and was known for their Sunday scene when the music was presented from 3pm-8pm.  Like most south side joints, Florence’s enjoyed a primarily Black clientele, while also being interspersed with the occasional curious White person.  For a long period, Hound Dog Taylor & the HouseRockers were the house band.  There were dice games, pig ear sandwiches available outside, and the general meld of excitement, euphoria, and danger that was an inherent part of the Black south side blues scene at the time.

When Hound Dog Taylor’s group was tagged by Bruce Iglauer to be the initial blues band released on his new Alligator Records label, Hound Dog and his group began to tour, taking them away from their prior home base at Florence’s.  This worked to Slim’s advantage, as he and his band took over house band duties there in 1972.

The scene at Florence’s, and at the other Chicago Black blues venues, demanded uncompromising blues, full of the anxieties, pressures, and life experiences realized day-to-day on the south and west sides.  And to his advantage, there was no “filler” in Slim’s music.  There was no compromise.  It ideally suited the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of Chicago’s impoverished ghettos.  It was full of the power, grit, and edginess not only of the Chicago blues at that time, but of the city itself for a resident Black person.  It was a working person’s music, full of the emotions of south and west side Blacks of the time, and as always, leaned into affairs of the heart and other very personal concerns.  Slim’s was an ideal brand of blues for Chicago at that time. 

Slim’s was a raucous approach, commanding in its delivery, brimming with the extremes of celebratory exhilaration, but also the haunting underpinnings that duress and pressures in life may bring.  Whether Slim’s blues presentation provided blissful support to something worth rejoicing about, or if his tome was more haunting due to a tale of personal woe, Slim was always fully able to convey each extreme, and all points between.  Slim always seemed to have a controlled feeling in the proceedings.  Whatever the song’s story, Slim’s blues was all business, no padding, just straight-from-the-heart reality.    

Slim recorded his first 45rpm release in 1966.  In fact, a copy of it is framed downstairs in my blues room, a tune entitled “Scufflin’.”  Due to this growing popularity and consistently satisfying shows, Slim finally recorded his first full album for a French label in 1977.  In 1978, one of Slim’s big breaks exposure-wise occurred when his work was presented on Alligator Records’ Living Chicago Blues series.  All told, Slim’s career recorded exposure extends to 73 appearances, many under his own name, but to be sure, there are a good number where he was a contributor on somebody else’s outing. 

Slim was featured on collections recorded for the MCM, Red Lightnin’, Alligator, Storyville, Black & Blue, Evidence, Candy Apple, Isabel, Rooster, Atlas, Blue Dog, Wolf, Blind Pig, Dixiefrog, Delmark, and CSR labels.  Singles were released on the Ja-Wes, Daran, and Mean Mistreater labels, among others.  To say that Slim recorded prolifically seems especially inadequate. 

Often when an artist has recorded as much as Slim did, there are bound to be in such a sizeable catalog a number of recordings that don’t live up to the standards set by such an in-demand musician.  Certainly, while each recording has its own feeling dictated by the recording’s producer, assembled backing musicians, and time period, I am unable to identify any Slim effort that does not satisfy.  However, again, each recording is unique in its sound.  Certainly, Slim’s 1978 Alligator label output has the clean, well-produced crispness that the label is known for, while the Blind Pig label recordings have a more in-your-face sonic quality to them.  And then, there are the vast Wolf label series of recordings that Slim made.  Especially on the many “live” Slim outings that Wolf released, there truly is that “I’m sitting in the club” sound quality to them, complete with audience clamor, amplifier feedback, and the general informality that comes with a “live” performance.  However, they capture Slim just as he sounded on the bandstand, and represent an authentic documentation of his shows.  Of course, Wolf often takes liberties with song titles on their releases, and the astute blues fan will pick-up on these inconsistencies right away.  But they capture Slim when I feel he was at his best; on-stage, plugged-in, and loud.

Slims’ great Teardrop bands, like that of certain other successful blues artists, brimmed with many great sidemen.  Nick Holt, again, Slim’s brother, was one of the best blues bass players ever, and was a fundamental long-time presence in The Teardrops.   Coleman “Daddy Rabbit” Pettis, Jr. was a solid rhythmic guitar force in the band for many years.  As previously stated, Slim’s brother, Douglas, too, was an accomplished drummer with the band.  Nate Applewhite lent his broad drumming skills to The Teardrops, as did Steve Cushing, yet another drummer, and as far as I can recall, he was the only White person to play in Slim’s band.  Of course, John Primer’s guitar work with Slim is well-known.  As you most certainly know, Primer is a Muddy Waters Band alum, as well, and has gone on to great renown for his solo blues work.  Timothy Taylor lent his drumming talents to The Teardrops, as did Michael Scott, and Jerry Porter, too.  Jake Dawson, a guitarist, plied his trade with Slim’s band, and yet another drummer, Earl Howell, additionally did so.  Is this a complete list?  I don’t think so, as one-off sidemen may have been used from time-to-time.  But hopefully, this highlights how valued it was to be in The Teardrops.

But, across-the-board, Slim’s Teardrops were tight aggregations, complimenting his declamatory vocals with an almost collective human metronomic result.  They chugged, lurched, and drove Slim’s work with an uncanny force that provided the perfect backdrop to the blues being presented.  Slim was able to go from an all-out vocal assault to a whisper virtually without effort, and the supportive Teardrops would know right where to fall.  Slim’s capability to go from a strong point to a softer counterpoint never seemed to find The Teardrops out-of-place. 

Slim’s guitar playing was ringing, searing, tearing, quaking, haunting, and just about any other emotional adjective that could be applied, often within the same song.  Most like that of B.B. King, Slim had an extremely strong left hand, and was able to use vibrato generated by his immensely powerful left hand to sustain long measures of cutting excitement to build a heightened mood and emotional release.  In some ways, it was Slim’s calling card.  When he began a long stretch of vibrato-laden guitar work and The Teardrops’ collective sound would increase, the anticipation and energy rose exponentially.  It was theater of the highest order.  The effects on the audience were of building anticipation and excitement.  And, Slim’s technique influenced many a rock and roll guitarist.  Slim’s blues influenced modern music in many big ways.

On-stage, Slim played the role of the rough-and-tumble south side Chicago bluesman.  Yet, his was a congenial charisma, of someone who was pleased to offer his brand of blues to what always seemed to be very enthusiastic audiences.  “The Big Man” had an infectious smile, and it seemed like his audiences reveled in the contrast between Slim’s outward prototypical south side bluesman persona and his actual outgoingness.  Slim’s frequent smiles and exultations from the bandstand said volumes about the man’s passion for his music.  He never seemed to put it on auto-pilot and coast through a show.  Slim’s delivery almost seemed to make his blues performance wholly satisfying.   

To attend a Slim show was always a mystery, as his expansive repertoire of songs was well-known and heralded.  Much like the famed roots musician Sleepy LaBeef, Slim was known as something of a human jukebox.  It was never known what Slim would pull out of his deep well of songs, what blues he would extract from his bottomless hat (and, as an aside, he usually had a hat of some sort on), and this made any Slim performance uniquely exhilarating.   There always seemed to be an infectious unknown to Slim’s proceedings.

I remember one Thursday night in the early 1990s when I was in Chicago for a banking conference.  I took “The El” north and walked the few blocks west on West Belmont Avenue to see Slim at B.L.U.E.S. Etcetera.  It was a dark, rather hazy, and quiet evening, and I remember seeing the Guardian Angels patrolling the neighborhood’s alleyways as I strode.  There was a modest crowd at the club, and as usual, as the night wore on, the number of people thinned.  However, Slim continued to play as if his life depended upon it, offering a continued stream of fine blues.  And all the while, The Teardrops rocked and heaved in solid support behind him.  You’d have thought that he was playing a festival before thousands of rabid fans.  Speaking with Slim later, I found him in the congenial, easy-going mood as was his nature. 

You want to see vintage Slim?  Head to YouTube and search “Magic Slim 1981 Montreux.”  The roughly 27 minutes of presented Slim music is a master class of Chicago blues at its best.  It ideally displays, more than the couple of thousand words here do, the distinct appeal of Magic Slim.

Slim passed away in 2013.  I miss his stinging notes, the long vibrato-loaded guitar stanzas, and Slim’s smile and compelling character.  Slim was the real deal, rough-and-ready, locked-and-loaded (whatever analogy you want to use), authentic Chicago bluesman.  And, I miss knowing that Slim is not out there somewhere submitting his epitome of Chicago blues to a wanting public.  Slim was, in many respects, modern-day blues music.

An American blues music treasure, indeed!