thinking about that reel-to-reel tape I’d brought from Baton Rouge. My plan was to get work—and then go to Chess Records. I figured I’d do what I’d done in Baton Rouge: get me a regular service station–type job and then see about my music. After weeks of not finding no service station–type job, though, my plan changed. I decided to find my way to Chess Records to see if Mr. Leonard Chess would listen to the song I’d made at WXOK.
I put on my little green jacket that I wore on stage in Louisiana, and carrying my Les Paul Gibson in one hand and reel-to-tape in the other, I went to 2120 Michigan Avenue. That’s where Chess had their office and studio. Naturally I was nervous—and also excited. Maybe I’d run into Muddy Waters. Given the fact that my contact at WXOK personally knew Leonard Chess and had given me a letter of introduction, hope was stirring in my heart.
Remembering all the great Muddy, Little Walter, Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy, and Jimmy Rogers records that came out of Chess Records, I figured their headquarters would look like a palace. I figured wrong. It was a skinny, plain-looking building that sat between a supply company and rundown rooming house. When I opened the front door, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk. The office was nothing to write home about.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Here to see Mr. Leonard Chess.”
“You have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am, but I do have a tape.”
“You need an appointment to see Mr. Chess.”
“I understand . . . but . . . let me introduce myself. I’m Mr. Buddy Guy, and I’m from Baton Rouge. Actually, from Lettsworth, but before I came up here to Chicago I was living in Baton Rouge, where I made this tape at a radio station called WXOK. Diggy Doo, the deejay at WXOK, well, he knows Mr. Leonard Chess very well. They been doing business for years, and he thought this song I did—it’s called “Baby Don’t You Wanna Come Home”—is pretty good. Gotta good snap to it, and so he gave me this letter to give to Mr. Chess.”
“That a Les Paul Gibson you got there?” asked a man who just walked through the door. He was carrying a guitar himself.
“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.
“Ain’t that something! Been looking for a guitar just like that. Lookee here, you wouldn’t mind me using it for a session I’m running into right now?”
“You ain’t gonna steal it, are you?”
Man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Wayne Bennett, and no, motherfucker, I ain’t gonna steal your guitar. Just need to borrow it. But you can come in and listen to the session and when it’s over, take your guitar with you. Won’t ever leave your sight.”
“I guess that’s okay, but I’m trying to get this meeting with Mr. Leonard Chess.”
“Leonard’s gonna be at the session. He gonna run the session. He runs everything around here. He’s top dog. You can talk to him after the session’s over.”
“That’s great,” I said. “In that case, use my guitar all you like.”
I followed him into the studio, where he took my guitar, plugged it into an amp, and played like it was his. The Spaniels were a doo-wop group I knew from their big hit, “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight.” I was fascinated to watch them weave together their harmonies. I saw that Wayne Bennett was reading music set in front of him on a stand. He read it beautifully. I had to admire that because I couldn’t—and still can’t—read a note. The session happened real fast. They recorded three or four songs. Occasionally they’d get some directions from a white man in the control booth who I figured had to be Leonard Chess. Tried to get a good look at him, but I didn’t have a good angle. I heard him say, “Do it again faster,” and then he said, “Too fast. Slow it down.” He had an idea for a guitar introduction. At one point he told Wayne to play a solo in the middle of the song.
Meanwhile, I didn’t say nothing to no one. I was
I put on my little green jacket that I wore on stage in Louisiana, and carrying my Les Paul Gibson in one hand and reel-to-tape in the other, I went to 2120 Michigan Avenue. That’s where Chess had their office and studio. Naturally I was nervous—and also excited. Maybe I’d run into Muddy Waters. Given the fact that my contact at WXOK personally knew Leonard Chess and had given me a letter of introduction, hope was stirring in my heart.
Remembering all the great Muddy, Little Walter, Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy, and Jimmy Rogers records that came out of Chess Records, I figured their headquarters would look like a palace. I figured wrong. It was a skinny, plain-looking building that sat between a supply company and rundown rooming house. When I opened the front door, there was a receptionist sitting behind a desk. The office was nothing to write home about.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Here to see Mr. Leonard Chess.”
“You have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am, but I do have a tape.”
“You need an appointment to see Mr. Chess.”
“I understand . . . but . . . let me introduce myself. I’m Mr. Buddy Guy, and I’m from Baton Rouge. Actually, from Lettsworth, but before I came up here to Chicago I was living in Baton Rouge, where I made this tape at a radio station called WXOK. Diggy Doo, the deejay at WXOK, well, he knows Mr. Leonard Chess very well. They been doing business for years, and he thought this song I did—it’s called “Baby Don’t You Wanna Come Home”—is pretty good. Gotta good snap to it, and so he gave me this letter to give to Mr. Chess.”
“That a Les Paul Gibson you got there?” asked a man who just walked through the door. He was carrying a guitar himself.
“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.
“Ain’t that something! Been looking for a guitar just like that. Lookee here, you wouldn’t mind me using it for a session I’m running into right now?”
“You ain’t gonna steal it, are you?”
Man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Wayne Bennett, and no, motherfucker, I ain’t gonna steal your guitar. Just need to borrow it. But you can come in and listen to the session and when it’s over, take your guitar with you. Won’t ever leave your sight.”
“I guess that’s okay, but I’m trying to get this meeting with Mr. Leonard Chess.”
“Leonard’s gonna be at the session. He gonna run the session. He runs everything around here. He’s top dog. You can talk to him after the session’s over.”
“That’s great,” I said. “In that case, use my guitar all you like.”
I followed him into the studio, where he took my guitar, plugged it into an amp, and played like it was his. The Spaniels were a doo-wop group I knew from their big hit, “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight.” I was fascinated to watch them weave together their harmonies. I saw that Wayne Bennett was reading music set in front of him on a stand. He read it beautifully. I had to admire that because I couldn’t—and still can’t—read a note. The session happened real fast. They recorded three or four songs. Occasionally they’d get some directions from a white man in the control booth who I figured had to be Leonard Chess. Tried to get a good look at him, but I didn’t have a good angle. I heard him say, “Do it again faster,” and then he said, “Too fast. Slow it down.” He had an idea for a guitar introduction. At one point he told Wayne to play a solo in the middle of the song.
Meanwhile, I didn’t say nothing to no one. I was
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