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Old Man's Blues

It wasn't like any of the places he'd grown up in. But then, none of them were, these stops on his tour of the continent, these clubs with names he couldn't pronounce. Willi's Jazz Stube sold five-dollar beers and ten-dollar cocktails - which meant they could've been paying the band a lot more than they were. The people in the room could afford those prices. They looked like professors, most of them. Music scholars and theoreticians of the sort who read all the books and had big antique 78 collections but hadn't touched an instrument in their lives. And it fit, sort of. Because the man they had come to see was known everywhere as Books.

"You gonna play the 'Old Man's Blues' tonight, Mr. Books?"

"You know I gotta pay my own drinks here? And get 'em myself? Imagine Ol' Books havin to fetch his own whiskey."

Books is ducking behind a brown curtain into the dressing area and sitting his butt on a padded stool, setting his glass down and plucking out the cherry from whatever's in it. He's got his jacket buttoned. Why, when it's so damn hot? Who's he trying to impress?

"What are you drinkin', Books?"

"Furniture polish."

"Why?"

"I'm resistant to everything else."

It's expensive furniture polish, too. Books got a shock the first night when the barkeeper asked him to pay and since then he's been controlling himself. He gets loaded only on the cheap stuff from the supermarket.

"Are you satisfied?"

"With what?"

"The set."

"We played alright. Jan's cuttin' me too much."

You look at the man, the lines in his face, the scars left by the gigs and the women, you know he's earned better than that. Young punks. They call him mister and carry his gear but still don't know to make way for his gift.

"And the crowd?"

"I don't expect much from white folk. I'm worried though."

"Why?"

"Buy my CD and I won't have to row back to Chicago. They didn't get it."

"They got it."

"Nope."

"They're lovin' you, Books."

"They didn't know what I was talking about."

It's a good line, the Chicago line, but like much of his act after three straight nights, it's beat. Don't tell him this. Respect the man.

"So, you gonna play 'Old Man's Blues' tonight, or what?"

Drink man, drink man, drink and then answer.

"I don't know. Ask the kid?"

"He decides?"

"I don't really care for that number, frankly. I don't know why I made it up. I wasn't no old man then and I still ain't no old man. The song gets me down."

"Why'd you write it then?"

Books tells that story often. He was on the road. He doesn't remember the city. He'd just split up with his second wife and lost his girlfriend as well. Alone in his hotel room, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, wherever it was, Books got to drinking and then, like it came down from heaven, a book of poetry fell into his hands. He says he'd never heard of this guy Goethe before, but there it was, and man could that fella write a blues. Books got in such a state reading it, was crying his heart out, and when he couldn't cry anymore he took up his harp and wrote the "Old Man's Blues."

Books always finishes by saying he doesn't like the song because it gets him down.

"That's what the blues is about, isn't it?"

"No, it ain't. The blues is about messin' around and drinkin' and gettin' it on with fine-lookin' women."

"Like the white girl in the front row?"

That's it, Books. Show me that smile. She's worth it.

"I told my boys I knew her and they thought I was talkin' shit. I saw her the last gig and told her to be here. There she is. You see, I know things. Nobody ever believes me, but I know things."

His big lips slide back and show the gap. He left that tooth in a south side tavern twenty years ago. Maybe it's what gives his blowing its singular quality. It's one of the eeriest, wickedest, hauntingest sounds in the blues.

"Why are you travelling with a bunch o' white guys, Books."

"They're white, but they're alright. Listen."

His back-up band is on, Tommy and the kid, Stevie and Jan jamming in C. They play two at the start of each set without him. Respecting the man, letting him rest. Solid musicians, all of them, but I wanna hear Books say why.

"Black boys today are different. They ain't into it."

His drink isn't empty and it needs to be soon. He tips it into him. While listening to the work of his band.

"You gonna play 'Old Man's Blues'?"

"I don't know that song."

When Books hears his cue - he's introduced as "the Legendary Mr. Books" - he strides out tall and proud into the light beyond the curtain, with just a trace of a hunch, and is there. Out front, where he lives. There's still a rush, even now, even here, and every night when he gets there he forgets about having to pay for the whiskey. The crowd whistles and hollers, for a second he is the universe and he strains to hear this. He gives the pretty white girl a wink. She raises her glass. Respecting the man and his past. Books raises his harp, and his mike, and starts blowing.

Jan cuts him.

Young foreign punk. Gettin' too big for his britches.

Books' playing slumps and at the end of the number he grumbles to the kid about it. The kid says what to play next.

"No."

"C'mon, Mr. Books."

"Uh-uh."

The kid reminds him what key it's in. Books looks for his B harp, thinking no, and a moment later it's in his hand.

"I'm feelin' bad," he says, staggering to the wall behind them. Tommy's counting. "Don't make me do this."

Not much can be done to the lights in this club, but the man at the board tries. He drops them, hangs them, dims them until they've disappeared. The band carves out a niche for Books to slide into. Books shuts his eyes and sees it.

It comes. Way down at the bottom. The softest, breathingest, pulsingest, moaningest cry for help you've ever heard and will ever hear.

This is what "Old Man's Blues" is about.

Couples at the back, veteran lovers and first dates, stop the shit they've been talking. Shhhhhhh. That's wisdom up there. Glasses stay on the tables. Don't need that stuff now. The bartender closes his register and watches. Don't care about the take, man. This cat hits home every night and I wanna ride with him.

Books lowers the harp. He starts singing. It's about being alone. Old and alone and nobody understands. You hear that? Women who've stripped out of their sweaters search for them now. Cover those shoulders. Getting cold in here.

The man falls over his instrument, drops to his knees. Sweat hits the pretty girl. He takes a breath out of his big old body and lets it sing, the harp sings, four, eight, twelve bars, and then another twelve, all of it disappearing behind a single, unwavering note, a suicide note from the Legendary Books to the world.

The song ends. The room is released.

Books gets to his feet again.

"Thanks, Books."

"Huh?"

"I knew you'd play it."

Books scans the stage. He sees the kid, Tommy, Jan. They're standing back and adoring him. None has said a word.

"See you at the hotel," says the voice.

Books plays the "Old Man's Blues" whenever he comes around.

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