My article signed by Johnny and the band.
A Winter Tale
So there I am at Clearwater Theater in West Dundee with a copy of my recently- published feature article abut Johnny Winter in my coat pocket. I’m hoping to get Johnny’s signature on it before evening’s end. The opening band hasn’t come on stage yet, but they’re getting ready.
In this sold-out crowd, I’ve managed to get to the bar and I’m in line to buy a beer. There are two guys standing off to the side. One of them looks familiar.
I dig the article out, unfold it, and look at the picture of Johnny’s band. I do a back-and-forth several times: picture–man, picture–man. He’s one of Johnny’s band mates. I’m almost certain.
I say, knowingly, to this tall, skinny guy, something like, “You bear a striking resemblance to the man in this picture.” To which he says, “I am the man in that picture.”
I stumble through how I wrote this article and it would be ever-so-cool if you would sign it as I break out the slim permanent marker. Turns out, he’s the guy I corresponded with via email. He got the interview questions to Johnny for the article. The man is Paul Nelson. Paul is the second six-string player in Johnny’s band–a damn fine one, as I am about to discover: a little Stevie Ray Vaughan meets Joe Satriani. As he’s signing my article (the bass player, who is standing there as well, also signs), I say it would be really cool to get Johnny’s signature. Maybe Paul could take the article to him then get it back to me later.
Next thing I know, Paul is walking me through the crowd toward backstage, up to security, saying, “He’s with me. I’ll bring him back through.”
We go down some stairs, through a basement, up another set of stairs, and out a back door. I’m asking him questions because I can’t be silent in this unexpected circumstance. “How far did you drive? Where was your last show?”
He’s answering the questions as we’re walking toward the trailer parked behind Clearwater.
But all I can think is, “Holy crap! I’m about to meet Johnny Winter. A man who has been recording and playing music for more than 30 years. A man who has jammed with B.B. King and Muddy Waters, shared the stage with Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin. He’s right behind that door…”
Then I’m stepping into the trailer behind Paul who is saying, “This is the journalist that wrote the article about you, Johnny.” I’m inside, and there’s the pale bluesman–a bona fide guitar legend–sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, his long, naturally bleach-white hair resting on a black t-shirt, his arm-tattoos in full view. The Illustrated Man himself: Johnny Guitar.
He doesn’t so much look at me as toward me (he was born cross-eyed, but it’s not that noticeable in this moment).
Johnny’s face looks as mellow as a face can look. He speaks softly as he greets me and by now I’m a little overwhelmed but managing to conceal it, I think. I’m saying how my older brother got his album, “White, Hot & Blue,” for me when I was a young lad and how I have a great respect for his talent and I’m putting the article down on the table with the marker by it.
I’m saying stuff about what he said in the article and he’s saying things back that I am wishing I could remember but know I mostly won’t, what with the anxiety and all. Paul and another guy (I think the manager) start telling stories about unbelievably ignorant things interviewers have asked and said over the years. Paul’s already said he really liked my article, so I figure I’m off the hook for abuse tonight.
There’s a story about a journalist who says he’s a big fan of Johnny and knows all about him and his music. Johnny says something about his brother, Edgar (who is plenty famous and well-established in his own right), and the guy says, “You have a brother? What does he do?” Ha! That sentence becomes an in-joke among them: “You have a brother?”
Then another story about someone who asked Johnny what it was like to jam with Robert Johnson and Johnny says, “He died in 1938.” Which is 6 years before Johnny was born.
Or the time the manager walked in a room–he’s just an ordinary white guy with black hair–and a journalist, waiting for an interview, asks, “Are you Johnny Winter?” Good grief. Winter’s an albino. Duh. Do a little research, dude.
Talk about ill-informed folks–their stories are making me look like a genius.
In this peculiar and very brief moment, I am part of something far outside my normal experience. I imagine what this life is like–traveling, performing, amidst the cigarette smoke and the smell of spilled beer, hearing the applause and shouts and whistles of the fans, hanging out in a trailer, having some guy who wrote an article about you trying to get your signature…and I’m back to me again.
Anyway, I get to shake Johnny’s hand, he signs my article, and eventually I awkwardly dismiss myself saying, “Thanks so much, I don’t want to take up any more of your time…”
I get escorted through the maze and shuffled back into the general audience. But I am feeling pretty cool, like I have a very excellent secret. I’m thinking I’m a little more “special” than most of those other audience members, the ones who haven’t sat across a table from Johnny or shaken his hand.
Yep–I’m feeling a little high, a little star struck.
And that’s my Winter Tale.
Thanks, Johnny, for your gracious hospitality and for giving me that cool moment. Most of all, thanks for all the great music. May you be playing for many, many more years to come.
Johnny Winter played at West Dundee’s Clearwater Theater on Saturday, December 29, 2007.
MysticHooligan